


The summer is over, and our childhood with it

by Thissentiment



Series: A Song of Ice and Snow [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Coming of Age, Cousin Incest, Explicit Language, Fem!Jon Snow, Female Jon Snow, Many winterfell shenanigans, Marge will show up way ahead, Maybe - Freeform, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn, The slowest, bear with me, i will try
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-10-08 05:36:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10379643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thissentiment/pseuds/Thissentiment
Summary: Although more fortunate than others, Lyarra Snow is a bastard. Her place, however much she had the love of his brothers and his father, never seemed to be Winterfell. She fits, but narrowly. And for all her life, she thought it would always be this way.Robb Stark is the eldest. He seeks to be an obedient son, a good son. He seeks to be like his father and to look after his siblings. But there is something shameful that he keeps locked inside, and for all his life, he thought he would never tell a soul about it.That is, until the King travels to Winterfell and their family is thrown into the dangerous Game of Thrones.





	1. Lyarra I

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I'm translanting (badly) this monster. Please, be gentle with my tender and illiterate soul. 
> 
> I wrote this just to get it out of my system, and suddenly I saw myself with several pages of relatively related scenes that could go somewhere. I have no pretensions other than to feed the long abandoned hobby of writing. Alas, it might be a good time to warn you that I've read a lot of fanfic and hence I got this urge of making a Jon genderbend. Moreover, it is basically a general study of characterization, in which I will try very kindly not to destroy GRRMartin's characters.
> 
> UPTADE (09/08/2017): This is REALLY slowburn and, as you can see, we will begin in Winterfell and go from there. It will take awhile for Maragery to show up, so if you clicked here wishing to get promptly the Robbaery ship, this story might not be your cup of tea. We will arrive there eventually, promise, but not right now. For the time being, if you really need a RobbxMargaery fix, you can check my bookmarks for some recs.  
>  
> 
> The disclaimer is that I do not own ASOIF book series or The Game of Thrones Tv Show. I'm just here for the fun and the drama.
> 
> Oh dear. Let's go!

 

 

 

Lyarra Snow stared at the horizon. She was at the top of the battlements waiting for her father's entourage to appear on the road.

 

Just that morning, information had come that a deserter from the Wall had been captured. Lord Stark had assembled some guards, as did his ward, Theon. The party was joined by her brothers, Robb and Bran, before setting out for the execution.

 

Lyarra bit her lip apprehensively. She knew how a decapitation could be something impressive, and it was the first time for Bran, her 10-year-old half-brother. Even if Robb was with him, she still preferred to make sure everything was alright.

 

She sighed in exasperation. She would have gone, if not for the commotion of earlier. Robb had helped Bran train with the bow and arrow in the yard (with some of Lyarra’s assistance, it was true) and their sister Arya - wild, incredible Arya - had come out of nowhere, insisting that she was better than poor Bran. When news of the execution arrived, the 11-year-old girl had tried to get into the entourage by using Lyarra's presence as an argument. This provoked a pointed look of disapproval from Lady Stark, who was sure to blame the daughter of her husband for the lousy example. In the end, the girls had been forbidden to go, Lady Catelyn still reproaching Lyarra for lack of common sense and propriety.

 

 _As is usual of_ _bastards_  were the words not said, but that hovered heavy in the air.

 

Long ago, Lyarra tried to adapt to the idea of her father's wife hating her for being a bastard. However, it was not because she tried that such recriminations hurt less. In fact, they seemed to increase the feeling that Lyarra did not belong to Winterfell.

 

_Because you are a bastard and bastards are stingy, thieves, traitors and whores._

 

Lyarra bit her tongue, swallowing a cry from escaping. To weep for old wounds would not do any good, no matter how much her guts ached to do it. So much better to wait for the brothers she loved so much, and make sure Bran had been able to do his duty with as little trauma as possible.

 

And maybe ... she thought, maybe she should go first to Arya, who had cast a look of contrition at the older sister when both had been punished. Getting in the middle of the towers without saying anything to the younger girl was not right, even though after Lady Stark's admonishing Arya had disappeared through the corridors of the castle.

 

“Lya?” and as if conjured by magic, there was the rascal herself, a mass of dark hair escaping from the tangle of braids. Arya’s tone sounded unsure, as if she were assessing whether Lyarra was angry with her - which was absurd, Lyarra could not stay upset for five minutes with her youngest sister.

 

"Hey." said Lyarra with a smile, signaling that everything was fine "Escaped the lessons?”

 

It seemed to work, for Arya shot at her and sat down beside her, forming an expression of desolation.

 

“Sewing is unbearable!” She exclaimed, energetically. “Even more so with Septa Mordane saying every half a minute how Sansa's work is beautiful and how Sansa has a born talent and how I should try to mirror myself more in my big sister!" another grunt of impatience. “You are my older sister and you do not sew!”

 

“This is not true. I only had my classes when you were younger.” Lyarra corrected gently. Honestly, she did not care so much about needle and embroidery, being better at adjusting and mending something rather than doing anything from scratch, and not in a thousand years could she do with as many embellishments and details as Sansa.

 

But gods forbid her from saying it out loud in front of Arya, for then the girl's rebellion would never end.

 

“It would have been better if you were with us! I was alone with Sansa and Jeyne!” Arya said gruffly, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

 _Oh_ , thought Lyarra. _Now_ _we come to another kind of trouble._

 

Arya had no knack for sewing and usually found the songs about princesses and summer loves stupid,  preferring to run and play, wrestling with the boys or riding a horse. She was not like Sansa, always praised for her Tully beauty, or like Lya herself, remembered for her resemblance to her long-dead Aunt Lyanna. No, Arya had the Stark's long face, with most of it screaming for Ned. She also never seemed to get clean, with holes in her skirt and dirty, skinned knees.

 

For Lyarra, none of these things mattered, but she knew that every now and then the other girls took advantage and made fun of her sister's weaknesses. Like most probably now.

 

Lyarra let out a sigh. “What did they say this time?”

 

When she got nothing but a sullen expression. The older girl tried to catch her attention a second time, making her voice a little harder.

 

“Arya ...”

 

Arya exhaled impatiently and seemed to think for a moment, until she decided where to start; “They did not say anything, actually. But when Septa corrects me, they always keep giggling, looking at me!” and then the girl threw her arms up in exasperation, “What's the point of knowing how to do these things with cloth, after all!?”

 

Lya bit her lip to keep from laughing at the intensity of her speech. She knew how to understand her sister's afflictions, but the melodramatic approach was always amusing at one point.

 

At last Lyarra adjusted her skirts and said in a soothing tone: “Well, it's helpful to know how to fix your own clothes. And you should not compare yourself to Sansa, who is ridiculously good at those little things and does pretty much  _magic_  with those lines. What did Septa say about Jeyne's embroidery?”

 

Arya paused for a moment, remembering. It was not too long and a small smile occupied her lips. “That it was too crooked and that the stitches were loose. She would have to redo half the work.” The younger one frowned. “But it's not as bad as mine!”

 

“Oh, but you're better than them in accounting, right? History of Battles too. You also learn dance steps better than anyone else … and fighting. Jory commented to me the other day that you were hiding and mimicking the boys training in the yard.”

 

That seemed to cheer her up. So much so that she exclaimed proudly:

 

 “And I'm the best in horse riding too!”

 

Lyarra smiled internally and retaliated with a pretend air of arrogance. "Do not overdo it, you're not as good as I am.”

 

Arya’s eyes flashed in defiance. “Ha! Just you wait and see! Soon you'll be too old, too dry and too decrepit to ride! More than you already are!"

 

Lyarra raised one eyebrow in mock outrage. “OLD!?”

 

“Yup. You even have white hair that I know! A whole lock!”

 

In fact, Lya had a thick bundle of silvery strands, which she always kept hidden at the nape of her neck or in the middle of the braid. She felt that it attracted too much attention in contrast to her long dark strands. The bastard girl had it as long she could remember, and was ashamed of it from time to time, especially after she had begun cultivating a small dose of vanity.

 

But because Arya, the possessor of all the world's prerogatives, mentioned the damn hair, Lyarra was not at all offended.

 

“Oh, you little devil, come here and I'll show you the old lady!”

 

And without blinking, Lyarra advanced against Arya in a determined round of tickling. The younger girl screamed and tried to pull away, but what Lya lacked in strength was enough to incapacitate and trap someone (something Ser Rodrik and Robb taught her a lifetime ago, claiming that she must know something to protect herself), so the little Stark found herself trapped between the older one's arms and quick hands.

 

“Aaaah! You witch, mercy, mercy!” Cried Arya, her voice high with laughter, tears streaming out of the corner of her eyes.

 

“Oh? And since when do old witches have mercy on little monsters like you!?” Lyarra proceeded to unleash even more tickles on the girl's ribs, which were soon followed by the cries of “I surrender! I surrender!”

 

That is, until both heard the cry of the sentries to open the gates.

 

Father and the others had arrived.

 

* * *

 

Arya went through the floors and staircases like an arrow and, not for the first time, Lyarra cursed her clumsiness when having to run with the layers of skirts of the dress.

 

“Arya, slow down!” She tried to catch her sister's attention with a whispered shout as they crossed the wing where Lady Catelyn and Septa Mordane usually stayed. It would not do any good if both of them intercepted the girl.

 

“Come on, don’t you want to know how Bran did?” Arya answered halfway up the flight of stairs, her skirts raised to a level that would make Lady Stark’s complexion pale. “I bet he was disgusted with the blood!”

 

“Oh, what a thing to say!”

 

But the little girl was already far away. Lyarra sighed and slowed, admitting she could not reach the lightning that was her sister. Oh, well, best to arrive with some dignity intact down to the courtyard. Lya might not be as meticulous as Sansa about personal cleanliness, but she liked to be at least in order.

 

Lyarra met Sansa on the way, and when they reached the courtyard, they could see Bran, Rickon, and Arya congregating in a small cake of people, while her father and Robb gave the horses to the stable hands.

 

“Lya! Sansa! Come and see!” Bran exclaimed, full of energy, which already gave life to Lyarra's heart.

 

Lyarra nodded and murmured a timid “Lord Stark” to Father, as she always did when they were in public and took one of the reins, stroking the back of one of the animals before giving it to the groom.

 

“Was everything alright?” she asked.

 

“More than you know,” Robb turned to her, a smile on his lips. It was then that she noticed the small ball of fur that he held.

 

“Oh,  _look at you_ _!_ ” Lyarra heard herself whispering, all the tenderness she had for animals taking over for a moment. The pup on her brother's lap was grey and seemed to be distracted, nibbling the thick leather of Robb's gloves, his yellow eyes gleaming with what seemed to be intelligence. It was then that she noticed the reason for the commotion: there were a group of wolf pups at the feet of the siblings, sniffing and trying at the same time to recognize the new place and to cuddle each other.

 

Incredibly large wolf cubs, Lya could tell. The girl turned to Lord Stark, an interrogation ready about to leave her lips but her father having seen her quizzical expression answered:

 

“Direwolves. We find them on the road, near the mother's carcass. It was knocked down by a forest deer.”

 

“Bran found them.” Robb said. “Father allowed us to bring them home if we each took responsibility for one.”

 

Lya raised one eyebrow.

 

“Each one of us...?”

 

“There are six pups, Lya! One for you too.” Bran exclaimed happily, clearly already with the chosen one in his arms, as Arya and Rickon looked uncertain with which one would be the next victim of a flood of crushing hugs.

 

Lyarra looked from Bran to Robb, who nodded happily, confirming that yes, she too had been included.

 

Her chest swelled to the point of exploding and she could not hide her smile. “Thank you,” she murmured, kissing the older brother's cheek, then crouched down and doing the same with the younger one.

 

Closer, she realized how different the litter was from each other, both in size and temperament. In an exercise of creativity, Lya wondered if each of the pups would be like their owner: two wild and restless as Rickon and Arya, another as refined as Sansa, one as calm as Bran or one such as Robb ... Or even as she.

 

A tug at her skirts caught her attention, and the girl looked down, seeing a pile of filthy fur in the greenish fabric of her dress.

 

The youngest of the litter, with a coat that would be white if it were clean and red eyes that stared at her as if searching her soul.

 

“Hello”, she said, and the creature's ears trembled as if understanding the words. The little head immediately followed, leaning to the side inquisitively.

 

Lyarra drew her hand closer to the pup, realizing how much larger it looked than the little animal. She scratched at its ears, watching the little wolf close his eyes in contentment.

 

“It's the runt of the litter.” A shadow covered her, Theon materializing at his side. “That one is yours, Snow.” He said sarcastically, as he always did.

 

Lyarra had the impression that the ward of Winterfell took it as a personal sport to find new ways to provoke and torment her. At least Robb came to her rescue most of the time.

 

“Theon,” the redhead said in a serious tone, very much like Lord Stark's.

 

“It's alright.” She assured him, for it was. Although Lya cherished every defense that Robb made in her name, she had already developed some resistance to the Iron Born's tirades. It was not worth it, to be carried away by every provocation raised.

 

But she turned to the smaller puppy, who was still tucked in her skirts and kept on staring at her with its bloody eyes. He looked so small and less fed than the others, with eyes that looked less alive, as if it were a creature from another world, like a ghost. She caressed the baby wolf once more. And once more he seemed more than happy to receive it.

 

Maybe Theon was right, after all. That really was her wolf.

 

* * *

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I made a tumblr. Feel free to nag me any time: 
> 
> https://this-sentiment.tumblr.com


	2. Catelyn I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn wondered from time to time if she would ever stop to feel bothered in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A single comment on POVs: they are points of view. Whether it's true or just an exaggerated perception of the character, you can not tell. Unreliable narrator is a blessing.
> 
> Likewise, Cat does not know how to compartmentalize emotions.
> 
> The disclaimer is that I do not own ASOIF book series or The Game of Thrones Tv Show. I'm just here for the fun and the drama.

 

 

 

Catelyn wondered from time to time if she would ever stop feeling like she didn't belong in Winterfell, even when she had long since married the Warden of the North and given him five trueborn children.

 

There was an eternal pendulum movement within her. Intermittent, it is true, but it undeniably traced the repetitive back-and-forth motion. Most of the time, she was Lady Winterfell, wife of Eddard Stark, mother of her children, with a straight and relentless assertiveness. However, there were those moments when she felt as though she had come for the first time to the North, disconnected and without any certainty.

 

Generally, these feelings of detachment left her as she walked into the Godswood and was at peace when within the deep ancestral immensity, or similarly being caught up looking at the fields in their wide, remote, gray expanse. But sometimes, those feelings returned when she looked at her husband's bastard.

 

Lyarra Snow was not to blame for Ned's infidelity, Cat kept repeating to herself often. A child without a mother, coming from Dorne or from where only the gods would know. But looking at those gray eyes seemed to be able to obliterate every year the Tully woman had spent with her husband, the value of her children. She was living proof of how Eddard Stark could put his honor in a relative perspective.

 

If only she were not there, growing up along with her children, so much more northern than all of them - maybe Arya as the only exception, but this was a special case because of the poor example that the bastard gave to the younger girl, always in the stables and riding as if training to be a knight.

 

Not to mention Lyarra's _success_ with the men of the family. Ned clearly favored his eldest daughter - or at least paid more attention to her than to his trueborn daughter Sansa - and the boys. All bewitched, making Catelyn wonder how much of Lyarra's charm was inherited from a woman whom her husband had never spoken a word about. Bran and Rickon adored her, and Robb ... Robb practically kissed the ground on which the bastard passed.

 

Catelyn's guts always twisted at the thought. They were close, _too close._

 

When they were younger, it did not seem to matter so much. Of course, Cat had never fully approved of how her son interacted with his bastard sister, but until Theon arrived there was no one else at a near age, and she did not have the heart to deny a child company to play with … she never forbade.

 

That reasoning had only proved to backfire on Catelyn with vindictive force.

 

If not in lessons or doing chores, they were together, weaving murmured comments, buried in some part of the keep, laughing and touching with an energy that could be forgiven in children, but in which for a seventeen-year-old girl and boy … was utterly _indecent_.

 

Ned did not think much about this behavior, no doubt transferring to Lyarra and Robb the relationship he himself had with his siblings, especially Lyanna, gods kept her in their peace. Her husband did not believe that at times and without reason, sin and perfidy infested the hearts of Men, the younger an easy prey. But she saw with a growing sense of dread every time Robb took Lyarra's hand in his or the bastard girl discreetly kissed her brother's cheek.

 

Cat had tried to separate them, pressuring her husband to arrange a marriage for Lyarra or to dispatch her to the Faith, to make her a Septa. Ned denied it every time, claiming that for the first option; the lass was still too young and for the second, that the bastard belonged to the Old Gods, had not been blessed with the oils of the Seven as Catelyn had insisted on doing with her children. He would not insult the heavens, new or old, using creed and religion as an excuse to cast Lyarra away from Winterfell.

 

Catelyn still broached discussions on the subject, as she knew that nothing good could come from Lyarra Snow's permanence.

 

* * *

 

She looked down at the letter open in her hands, the royal seal still attached to the piece of parchment. Somehow, Cat also felt that nothing good would come from the arrival of the king to the North.

 

* * *

TBC


	3. Robb I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth was that Robb would make a fool of himself were it necessary for Lyarra to smile at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own ASOIF book series or The Game of Thrones Tv Show. I'm just here for the fun and the drama.

 

 

 

Since the announcement of the coming of the Royal Family to the North, a frenzied energy seemed to take Winterfell progressively.

  
With each passing day, shipments of food arrived from Wintertown and White Harbor, boxes upon boxes of candles were taken from the storerooms, pelts and blankets cleaned. Mother and Poole always seemed to be on the move, checking to see if everything was in order, for banquets and for the upcoming guests (apparently, one of the queen’s siblings liked to spend the evenings reading).

  
Father left them in peace most of the time, claiming that he would not disturb with the preparations, but occasionally feeding a suggestion about the likes of King Robert.

  
Arya, Rickon, and Bran waited to see Father's friend who had succeeded in overthrowing Rhaegar Targaryen, as well the Kingslayer Lannister and the other knights.

  
Sansa also dreamed of knights, but for a different reason.

  
Even Lya, who always regarded the other lords visits to Winterfell with resignation and a certain boredom, seemed curious with all the excitement generated.

  
To be honest, it was very difficult not to get infected with all that. And if Robb were to admit it to himself, he kind of had a little hope that Ser Barristan Selmy would be among the Royal Guard.

  
When the scouts Father had sent arrived announcing that the king's entourage was only a few leagues away, Mother had practically chased Theon and Robb to be shaved while she herself struggled with Arya's hair.

  
“And make sure those beasts are trapped.” Mother finished under a shower of Arya’s protests when the older woman tried to add ribbons on the dark locks, without success –“Gods free us of them to cause a scene.”

* * *

 

  
And with his face and ears relatively less covered in hair than usual, there he was: hunting dire wolves through the keep.

  
Not that it was a particularly laborious task: Father had told his children to train the animals, and each one had done so in their own way. Lady was by far the most well-mannered of all, so it was easy to find her lying at the foot of Sansa's bed; Bran's pup, still nameless and always calm, was waiting patiently on the side of the east tower while its owner hung high on the gargoyles and roofs; Robb had to shout to Bran that he was taking the pup on their Mother's behalf. The eldest Stark lad had seen Nymeria in his sister's room earlier, staring at the fight between Arya, Mother and the comb with which he swore to be sympathy for the girl. Shaggydog, the most aggressive of all the litter, had tried to bite him when Rickon whined for being separated from the pet, but thank the gods the pup was still too small to do great damage; Grey Wind was in Robb's quarters, stuffed with warm milk and bread, sleeping soundly in a tangle of old skins.

  
With that, there was only Ghost, Lya's wolf.

  
The most obvious option was to check if the animal was already in his sister's chambers, so Robb crossed the corridors in the right direction. Arriving, he knocked on the door; more to announce his presence than anything, for soon he turned the knob and stuck his head into the chamber, without any concern whatsoever.

  
“Lya?”

  
Lyarra was standing by the window, and when the lass heard the door, quickly turned her gaze to the entrance of the room. When she realized who he was, Robb could see a slackening in her shoulders.

  
“It's time already?” She asked, fingers curled in a thick lock of hair that fell over her shoulder.

  
Robb slipped through the space he had created and closed the door with a small click. Playing with her hair was Lyarra Snow's standard procedure for dealing with anxiety, just as his was to bite his own lips.

  
“Is everything alright?” He asked softly. “I thought you would be curious about all the commotion down there.”

  
She let out a small sigh and crossed her arms over her chest, as if hugging herself. “I was … I still am. But I might be nervous, too. Father asked me to wait for the king right behind you and I wonder if I will still be too visible.”

  
Robb frowned and sat down at the foot of the bed. A growl had been heard and it was then that he noticed Ghost, disguised in the middle of a fluffy white blanket and clearly unhappy to be awakened from his nap. He scratched the animal's ears in apology, turning his eyes to his sister.

  
“Lya, there is no problem in you being visible.” He said fervently, already having a notion where the conversation was leading.

  
Lya's eyebrows shot up, and her dark eyes were glowing with sadness, which made him wilt a little.

  
Lyarra Snow was believed to be a sullen little thing, but every time they were together, she seemed to let some guarded things flow from within her, often the sorrows of being a bastard. At such times, the expressions on the brunette's face seemed to signal enough that there was to know, and he had become proficient in that non-verbal language.

  
Robb frowned, clenching his teeth in anger, directed at every person and every perception that thought Lya - sweet, gentle, incredible, Lya - was less than a person, just because she was not the daughter of Eddard Stark's wife.

  
She approached and sat on the opposite side of the bed, the blanket with Ghost between them. The pup had gone back to sleep silently, almost indistinguishable from the pelt of the blanket if it were not for the snout.

  
“Perhaps it was not important with the visit of northern bannerman, since everyone respects both Father and the name Stark. But they are from the south ... Except for Dorne, southerners are not known for the fair treatment of bastards ... or bastard girls, for that matter.” She mused, as she ran fingers through Ghost's soft fur.

  
“Father is a friend of the King and the host, and you are his beloved daughter. If that is not enough, just say one word, he will protect and defend you. And me too.” He heard himself speaking assertively, his voice serious, grave. Both because Robb believed to be true and because he hoped that something like this never needed to happen one day.

  
Finally, he took her hand in his; her were fingers marked with writing and bow calluses, but looking so much more prominent and white when contrasted with his gloved hands.

  
“No one will touch you.” Robb said candidly.

  
Lyarra let a puff of air escape from her lips, and curled her fingers into his own. “I just do not want to offend anyone. Or provoke a scene.” She whispered to their joined hands.

  
“You are not going to.” Robb assured her with equal certainty. Lya was almost physically incapable of being purposely obnoxious to anyone, the maximum being a rare crossed reply to Theon, and generally the Ironborn had it coming.

  
Lya looked at him then, and with relief the boy saw the woman's lips stretch out and the row of teeth appear in a smile. Small, but as with each one Lya gave, Robb's heart seemed to want to explode inside his chest.

  
“Thanks.” She said in a low tone, but not quite a whisper.

  
The truth was that Robb would make a fool of himself, to make Lyarra smile at him. Even if she did her characteristic, discreet, charming stretch of lips, or the bright, sonorous laughter that made her eyes close and her cheeks flush - it did not matter, for they would all be worth it. If it was accompanied by one of the kisses the girl pressed to his cheek, Robb was sure he could climb the Wall with his bare hands, if Lya mentioned it.

  
Guilt and contentment weighed on his chest every time he thought that way. _This is not the way you should think about your sister._

  
But how could he stop feeling this way, when he himself did not know even when all the love he felt for her had bled to spaces other than the fraternal, taking him so completely? He had been a boy and then a lad, Lya a presence as steady and as soft as the snow she carried in her name. How to perceive the change of nuance when she had always been so fundamental? She had been his companion before any other boy in the fortress, his friend and accomplice in executing small pranks at the guards, and she was also the lovely girl dancing with Sansa at the Harvest Festival, trying to balance what would be appropriate for a lady with no orthodox wills.

  
And when she thought no one noticed her, she was the girl who got lost thinking about a mother she had never had, and what she could possibly amount to be in such a cruel world for bastards and women.

  
Her grief seemed to cling and encompass her beauty, so connected they made Robb want to take her in his arms and cross the Narrow Sea and beyond, to a place far away, only of summer and heat, in which Lya would have no reason to stop smiling.

  
And there he went again. Robb kicked himself internally, trying to regain his sense. He could be so incredibly wrong in the eyes of Men and Gods, but the boy would never drag her along to damnation and dishonor. He could be the prodigal son of Winterfell, the deserter. He would gladly accept this disgraced title for Lya, but she would live forever with the thoughts of bringing shame to her father and confirming all prejudice with natural children. That would destroy her.

  
“We need to go.” He forced himself back into the conversation. And to disguise what thoughts crossed his head. He smiled. “Do you think this furry little monster can stand without you for a while?”

  
She let out an “hm,” pretending to seriously consider the matter. Success.

  
“As long as I bring it for dinner, I think it's going to be all right.” Lyarra squeezed his hand and stood up, adjusting her dress. “Let me just get my cloak.”

  
Lya moved toward the closet, a subtle glint in the folds of her skirts and the bell-shaped sleeves of the gray-blue dress. When she slipped on her cloak and tucked the rabbit fur over her shoulders, the neckline of the dress did the same.

  
“You're shimmering.” Robb commented.

  
“Yes I am.” The brunette shook her skirts, showing the effect. “Glass beads.”

  
His answer was a raised eyebrow. Lya readily offered an explanation.

  
“I did not put them on, it was Sansa. She also managed to embellish Arya's dress. Apparently, she has a whole theme prepared.”

  
Robb let out a bark of laughter and got up too, crossing the room and opening the door. “Oh, gods. She's living a fairy tale, isn't she?”

  
“She doesn't talk about anything else. Arya wants to strangle her with embroidery thread during the sewing circle. It gets pretty intense sometimes.”

  
Lya took one last look in the mirror and headed for the door. Robb nodded so that she crossed first. When she did, he closed the room, still chuckling.

  
“I do not know what's funnier: Sansa, Arya or you in the middle trying to put out the fire. Did you get your gloves?”

  
She shook the dark leather in her right hand. Lya put them on and took a deep breath, as if asking for courage. It was probably exactly what he was doing.

  
Robb smiled at her once more, trying to pass confidence, and started down the hall. He did not take two steps when he felt a small tug on his cloak. Lya had stopped him and looked at him with tenderness.

  
“Thank you, again.” She said, once more. There was the closed-lipped smile, framed by a milky face, soft dark hair and light grey fur.

  
The familiar sensation of liquid warmth flowed through him. The gods could not be less merciless, not when he had to resist _that_.  
On impulse, he came closer and kissed her temple. It was chaste, but no less overflowing with love.

  
“At your service, my lady.” He answered humorously and completed more seriously, “It will be all right, Lya. I promise you. Ready?”

  
His sister took his arm and nodded.

  
“Ready.”

 

* * *

  
  
Just before they left for the courtyard, Lya had let go of his arm and slowed her pace, standing a foot behind him.

  
Robb frowned uncomfortably but said nothing about it. He knew that if they appeared together as they were, they would provoke Lady Catelyn's hard reproachful look. And she would focus much of her displeasure on Lyarra, which would only make the girl more anxious.

  
_Oh Mother. If only you knew who the two of us really are the problem ..._

  
Then he let his sister slip from his grasp to so she could join Theon and Septa Mordane in the line. The courtyard was crowded, as if every soul of Winterfell had gathered to receive the royal entourage - and perhaps that was the case. The sentry's warning had sounded and he quickly slipped into the designated spot between Father and Sansa, whom shone with glass beads even in the dim light of day.

  
He bit his tongue to hide his laughter.

  
“Beautiful frock.” He murmured jokingly, just needing to incline his head for the middle sister hear him. Sansa grew like wild ivy these days.

  
“Do not tease, Robb.” She said impatiently, her eyes fixed on the gates.

  
Before he could say anything, Father cleared his throat loudly, giving them both a single look of disapproval. That was enough for Robb to regain his composure. Time to be the heir of Winterfell.

  
He forced himself to straighten his spine and take up the same stoical expression as his father, bravely managing to minimize his reaction when Arya appeared, shining clothing and with a bloody helmet. If she was already like this at the actual entrance, imagine when Mother forced her to dress for the feast.

  
The crack of wood and pulleys drew his attention to the entrance. Behind him, he heard an exhalation of air from Lya. Glancing at his sister, he had seen her shrug slightly and line up directly behind Father, hoping to be hidden by his figure.

  
When she realized her brother was looking at her, Robb moved his lips without a sound, “It's going to be alright.” Lya nodded discreetly and shifted her attention to the entrance. He did the same.

  
A stream of men and horses seemed to run into Winterfell, gleaming with gold and polished steel. There were banners with the black stag of the Baratheon, others boasted the Lannister lion flags, especially those surrounding a carriage of absurd size.

  
The knights came with the visors lowered, so that their faces were noticeable. With some disappointment, Robb noted that Ser Barristan did not appear to be among them. In fact, the most prominent figure in the Royal Guard seemed to be the Queen's brother, Jaime Lannister, who seemed to look at everything with a mocking air. There was also a man who stood out just as much, with his dog-shaped helmet and his burnt face.  
Beside them was a blond boy, about fifteen or so. He was dressed richly, but despite the airy, arrogant air, he looked ridiculously small and skinny on the top of such a large horse.

  
_It must be Prince Joffrey,_ Robb thought, _he really does look like a royal prick._

  
The blond boy let out an equally full-of-himself laugh, and Robb heard a low sigh at his side. He glanced quickly at Sansa, and she looked at the prince in a way the older lad did not like, did not like at all.

  
Leading the horses was the King. Robb had never seen him, despite having received his name because of the monarch. He was a burly, red-headed man, who appeared nothing like what he had heard from the tales of the Battle of the Trident. Of course, the war was seventeen years ago, but a person did not fall so fast, did he? Father certainly was not the same way as when he was young, but Lord Stark was not in the same condition as his friend. If it were not for the fine clothes and mount, he could easily be a tavern owner rather than the commander of the Seven Kingdoms.

  
When the King dismounted, Winterfell knelt down, Robb included. While the minutes stretched on, not another sound was heard beyond the royal boots on the gravel. From his peripheral vision, Robb watched them walk until they were facing his father.

  
It was a signal to raise a jest about weight-gaining and, as if by magic, the tension in the air had dissipated. The King was fussy in the compliments he gave his father and mother, which was not a bad thing, but reinforced the idea of "tavern owner" in Robb's imagery. Poor mother was clearly uncomfortable, just like Rickon, beside her and a victim of a well-intentioned but obviously painful head rub.

  
“And who else do we have here?” The ruler turned to the other sons of Lord Stark.

  
Robb was the next to be greeted and, having the appearance or not, the man was still the King, which made the heir of Winterfell feel a pang of anxiety in the stomach.

  
“You must be Robb,” the monarch commented, looking down at the boy, offering him his hand.

  
Up close, King Robert looked older and weary. His face was red and swollen, perhaps as much by the weight of ruling as by the drink, the smell of wine emanating from him like sweat. The handshake was strong, and for the first time Robb could see the man that his father had described, but no more. He had grown old, had lost his purpose. It was a bit depressing and disappointing to see, actually.

  
When the greetings were over, they both seemed not to know what to say to each other. They ended up nodding and then the king moved on. Sansa lowered her head, flattered to be called "pretty little thing," Arya had been treated like Robb himself, with the addition that the king did not even know the girl's name. Probably he did not remember Bran's name, but he had thrown a generic "show me your muscles" in the boy's direction.

  
Oh, well, with that the formality was in the process of finalizing and no one had lost a member. In Robb's view, it was already a success, the King already shouting at Father about visiting the crypts.

  
Until the King interrupted his speech, disturbed as if he had seen a ghost. Robb, as well as most of the spectators, followed the line of sight, which fell directly upon Lyarra like a spotlight through trees in a meadow.

  
_Oh shit_.

  
“You ...” the King began in disbelief. Lya, on the other hand, when realizing that she was precisely the focus of attention, seemed like a frightened doe ambushed by hunters. She cast a desperate glance at Robb and then at Father, not quite sure what to do.

  
She tried a bow, sinking into her skirts and lowering her head, a "Your Grace" escaping low. Quickly, she returned to her original position and pleaded another non-verbal cry for help to her father and older brother.

  
Father was faster.

  
“Your Grace.” He approached Lya, giving the signal that Robb needed to do the same. “This is my natural daughter, Lyarra Snow.”

  
Lya lowered her head once more in greeting. Her hands were discreetly clutching the edges of her cloak, as if wanting to cling to something and not run off to the hills.

  
“Your daughter!? She is Lyanna's image! Hell, Ned, I'm talking about visiting your sister in the crypt, I thought I was seeing a ghost. How old are you, girl?”

  
“Ten and seven, Your Grace.” Lya responds mechanically and Robb can see her approaching father almost hesitantly.

  
“Hm. In the middle of the war then, Ned? Ha!” The King said to Father, turning his attention to her. “You are a vision, girl. Beautiful as a winter rose, just like your aunt.”

  
Robb was fuming silently. The little sympathy he kept for the king's figure had wilted and died, leaving nothing but scorn. He was, at the very least, rude, disrespectful and vulgar with the commentary of the war, practically announcing his father's liason in public square. Mother was livid with humiliation and anger, Lyarra seemed to want to be swallowed up by the earth itself. That alone was enough to touch the whole bunch of people outside the gates, fucking monarchy.

  
But the look he threw at Lyarra. From top to bottom, almost identical to Theon's as he appraised a kitchen wench, as if he were seeing a plate of meat after days without food. Or analyzing a mare to be bred. For this, Robb would draw the sword if he had one.

  
He clenched his fists and teeth tightly, trying to control his temper. He could feel his mother's eyes burning into the side of his face, demanding that he did nothing on impulse. But how could he not!? This man had insulted his family, by shouting of his father's infidelity to the four winds and was still salivating about the woman Robb loved, as if she were something to be owned.

  
And Father. Father would not do anything ?!

  
A voice dripping with disdain was present. The queen, who had descended from the carriage accompanied by her ladies and children, was looking at the scene as if she wanted everyone involved to catch fire.

  
“We've been traveling for ages, my love. The children are tired and cold. Surely your memories of the dead can be saved for another time?”

  
That seemed to give Father an appropriate opening to intervene.

  
“Your Grace,” he began, subtly setting himself between the King and Lyarra, lightly moving his daughter in the direction of Robb. “Did you say something before about going to the crypts?”

  
The King then re-directed his focus to his old friend, albeit reluctantly. “Hm. Yes, yes. Show the way, Ned.” He said at last, taking a final look at Lya.

  
When Father and the King were swallowed up by the entrance to the crypt, there seemed to be a general scattering, with Poole and Hullen going to the entourage, Lady Catelyn going to the Queen to indicate the appointed chambers. Lya slipped out of Robb's reach, turned around, and began to retreat, practically fleeing. The boy was soon behind, caring little for propriety. He laid a hand on Lya's shoulder and brought her close, bringing their sides together, leading her to the nearest building. The girl was tenser than an armed bow, a sigh from trembling.

  
The library door closed with a heavy sound. Lya seemed to seek support from one of the walls of the place. Still stiff, her breath remaining faintly controlled, her eyes jumping from one place to another, trying to calm down.

  
“Are you alright?” Robb asked in vain, because of course she was not _, but what else could he say_? If it were not for him asking about her well-being, he would be screaming, outraged, pounding the walls against the King, against himself _. I told her it would be all right._ “Lya, please, answer me.”

  
She tried to take two big gulps of air, still looking in any direction other than his. “I ... Oh, gods.” She buried her face in her hands. “I'm sorry.”

  
Incredulity exploded inside him.

  
“What? Lya, no!” Robb withdrew her hands from her face as gently as he could. Her expression was helpless, as though she did not know what to do. “Lya, it was not your fault."

  
The brunette shook her head in denial.

  
“You know who I look like. The whole North knows! I should have anticipated this, I should have insisted to Father ... Oh, your mother must be _furious_.” She stammered and his stomach rolled in frustration and pain. It was simply wrong for Lya to feel responsible when she was the victim. The victim of a drunken pig wearing the king's crown, victim of a fucking world that would be ready to throw a shower of stones at her because she was a constant reminder of sin and debauchery. And a victim because of him too, who had promised something he could not keep.

  
Robb placed both hands on Lyarra's shoulders and pulled her toward his chest. She came without resistance and he wrapped his arms around her body. If he could, the boy would open a hole in his chest for her to stay like this, cocooned and safe.

  
“It's not your fault that you look like Aunt Lyanna, you have no control over it. No more than a tree has control in having green or red leaves.He extrapolated all the limits of good sense, of basic education." Robb tried to reassure her. Swallowing dry, he said, “Ah, Lya, I'm sorry. I did not think something like that could happen.”

  
He felt her hands on his waist and Robb instinctively tightened his arms, narrowing the space between them even more, his lips pressed to her hair, kissing her once, twice, trying to give all the comfort he could give. Lya seemed to relax for a moment.

  
“It will not happen again. No one will touch you, Lya, not even if it's the King. I'll talk to Father,” he whispered.

  
She pushed him away as if struck by lightning, pulling away enough to face him. "You're not going to say anything to Father.” She said in a serious tone, her dark eyes as big as coins.

  
Robb groaned in frustration. “He saw what happened, Lya. He put himself between you and the King.”

  
Before she could protest, the library door opened; “Robb? Lyarra?” Lady Catelyn's voice floated like dust into the place, causing them to separate. When the Lady of Winterfell found them, Lya had retreated back to the nearest wall and stared down at the floor in shame. Robb in turn straightened his spine, ready to face his mother if she went to berate his sister.

  
Lady Catelyn approached them, her eyes darkening as she took in the scene. She looked from her son to the bastard, letting out an exasperated sigh.

  
“Mother,” he began cautiously, but Lya interrupted him.

  
“Forgive me, Lady Stark.” The words rushed out of the girl's mouth, as she stared down at her feet.

  
Robb opened his mouth to defend his sister, but Lady Catelyn said; “That was hardly your fault, girl.” One more sigh, this time with a clear note of exasperation. “For all intents and purposes, it might be prudent for you to stay away while the royal family is here.”

  
The lad cast a puzzled look on his mother. When Arya or Sansa behaved in a way that Catelyn did not think appropriate, she did not hesitate to blame Lyarra, even if the brunette had not done anything to influence the sisters' attitudes. The treatment now with the King was a welcome surprise, but not anticipated. A sense of relief passed him, until he pondered the words again.

  
_Away ... But what does she mean by that?_

  
“You propose to completely exclude her then.” Winterfell's heir asked seriously. “Treat Lyarra as if she does not exist."

  
Which was not good. To him, one part was for Lya’s protection, no doubt a priority. But another was to make her almost like a pariah, to pretend she did not belong to their family, that she was not well-liked among them.

  
Mother folded her arms, an impatient expression on her face, not unlike the one from years before when Robb was eight and was caught stealing pieces of cake before dinner.

  
“It's obviously too late for that. And depending on your lord father and you, my son, the Wall comes down whether Lyarra is with the family or not. But considering the circumstances, to say that she is ... unable to attend the festivities is perhaps the best option.”

  
Lyarra looked beneath her lashes, still saying nothing. Robb felt his rage bubble in his throat. “You see then? How the King looked at her. The total lack of respect with Father, with you, with Lya.”

  
Beside him, he heard a whimper. "Robb." Lya caught his attention in a watery, tired tone. “Everything is fine now...”

  
His gaze bounced from mother to sister in a second.

 

“No, _it's not!”_ He almost screamed, which made her cringe against the wall. Robb mentally kicked himself and lowered his tone. “I'm sorry. But something needs to be done.”

  
“Are you finished?” Mother scolded him sternly. “Stop and _think_ , Robb. He is the King . The only thing we can do to prevent something from happening is to leave her out of sight.” She turned to Lyarra. “You will not be forbidden to wonder through Winterfell, Lyarra. But you understand, when I say that it is not prudent to walk freely through the keep, don't you?”

  
Lyarra still stared at the hem of her skirt, motionless as a statue. She pressed her lips in a thin line and nodded.

  
“Good. We're in accord, then. You will be unwell with moon pains during today's feast and during tomorrow's hunt. This will give us time to think about other excuses.” Mother explained, already on her way to the entrance.

  
Robb murmured a; "I'll be right back" to Lya, and followed in his mother's footsteps, signaling that he would go out with her. The door had been closed and he glanced to the lady at the door.

  
The truth is he was apprehensive now. He would do everything possible to keep the promise he had made, protect Lyarra with all the ferocity within. But his mother's words echoed in his mind. The man was a pig, that's true, but a King nonetheless. It would be absurdly easy for him to break away from any scandal, leaving behind only a broken home and a broken girl. His mother's help, strange as it might seem, gave him encouragement.

  
“Thank you, mother.” He said, sincere, grateful.

  
However, his Mother's eyes were clear and sharp as ice. Equally cold were the words she whispered; “I am only doing what is necessary to preserve peace and our home, just as you should do. This game you have with her is dangerous. It _has to stop,_ Robb. Whether you want to or not.”

* * *

  
The next morning found Robb in a foul  mood.

  
Just before they went upstairs to dress in the evening, Lyarra had locked herself in her room, announcing that she was not feeling well. Still mulling over what had happened during the day, Robb had insisted that Grey Wind keep her company with Ghost. Within a few weeks, the two wolves were already the size of average mutts, and Grey Wind howled so loud it could be heard on the other side of Winterfell. It was not much, but they were an obstacle on the way to his sister. Before he went downstairs, he had made sure the bedroom door was locked, only then sure enough to attend the banquet.

  
The Great Hall was filled with food, music, and people. Robb sat with his siblings next to the King's children on a table below the dais that had been laid for Father, Mother, the King and Queen. Like Sansa and Arya with the two princes, he had to walk arm in arm with the princess, feigning a smile and a joy he did not possess. Especially when the lad glanced the stage.

  
The Queen had an air of superiority that could be seen miles away. Her lips seemed thin in endless disgust, as if she had a handful of horse shit under her nose. But her husband ... He did make the boy grab the meat knife with a fraction of unnecessary strength. Red and sweaty, sometimes giving comments and looks to maids. More drunk than a possum, King Robert gradually became more graphic in his interactions, seeming to have completely forgotten the bastard of Winterfell. All he needed was a body and one that was not the Queen.

  
Somehow, the realization that Lyarra, however physically similar to his dead betrothed, was of no more value to the ruler than a wench in the kitchen, did not lessen Robb's irritation. On the contrary, it only made it worse.

  
He could feel his Mother's eyes on the back of his head, demanding once more that he should control himself, as if Robb were ready to attack the King at any moment. The idea itself was not bad really, however, Robb contented himself with cutting the piece of ham on his plate a little more diligently than necessary, counting the hours for the event to end.

  
As if that were not enough, Theon had taunted him all along, asking why he was so scowling, why he had not invested in poor Princess Myrcella, considering that the girl kept glancing longingly at him. Princess Myrcella, who was younger than Sansa, for fuck's sake.

  
When he had finally raised to retire for the evening, his mother had hissed at him “be discreet” which clearly meant ‘do not stand guard at Lyarra's room, as I know you want to do’. Robb had complied, but not without spending much of the rest of the night with his ears open for any unusual noise. Sleep had been something semi-existent.

  
And on the morn, the men would venture into the woods, for a good part of the day to hunt.

  
Robb sighed. He should check Lya before getting ready to leave.

 

* * *

  
  
The lad was halfway down the corridor, drafting a plan to pick up some cinnamon cakes in the kitchen and take them to Lyarra, when he heard the voices of his parents coming from the solar where his father handled paperwork. The door was half open, as if someone had not stayed to see if it had actually closed.

  
Robb approached with every intention of saying; “Good morning,” to warn about the opening and leave them alone when he heard his mother's voice rise:

  
“If you're going to King's Landing, then you must decide what Lyarra's destiny will be.”

  
“Catelyn ...”

  
“No, Ned. If you do not believe what I tell you about her and Robb, at least respect me when I say I do not want her here. Take her with you!”

  
“The capital is a cruel place for bastards, Cat. She will have no place wherever she goes at court. And you saw how Robert looked at her. It would be a further risk to take her with me.”

  
“Then arrange a betrothal for her! Lyarra is old enough now! And below the Neck, preferably. You will be the King's Hand, a good arrangement will not be difficult, even if she is a bastard. You're taking three children from me, Ned. Give me this comfort. _Remove. Lyarra. From here.”_

  
The silence that followed was heavy and lasted a small eternity.

At last it was possible to hear a weary exhale from Father. “I'll talk to her.”

  
Robb's blood froze.

* * *

 

TBC 

 


	4. Lyarra II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lya had always been luckier than other bastards. And other girls too.

 

 

 

Lyarra was beginning to feel claustrophobic.]

 

From sunset until morning she had sought refuge in her own room with two wolf pups, a handful of books, and one of Rickon’s shirts as  companions. She had distracted herself as much as she could, trying to dispel the memory of what had happened during the day, but without much success. The sensations still clung to her skin like mud, making her stomach turn.

 

Since she had grown older, she had become aware of the fact that not all men were like Father, always keeping an attentive eye for his wife (that is, disregarding Lyarra’s existence altogether) and his daughters.  No, there were also men who regarded women like cattle to be bred, like investments and things to be traded for; there were those who were completely ignorant of the female existence, and those who only noticed them when it was to satisfy a certain  _urge_.

 

To all these men, however, there seemed to be a space where they could act in a safe,  _appropriate manner._  Authority, natural and legal rights,  _property_. All intertwined to guarantee that place. Birth was certainly one of these elements, allowing the actions of noble and plebeian men over noble and plebeian women.

 

For Lyarra, these boundaries have always been fluctuating and unstable. Bastard women, when their origin is not revealed, live their lives as commoners, orphans or not. It is a hard life, but not necessarily a bad or worse one than when affiliation is known. Carrying a family name on her shoulders can be an equal burden, blamed for an act of which her parents are responsible, deserving less respect than any other woman, albeit with an inkling of freedom. Common knowledge automatically classified their personality insidious, and their bodies, free ground for the exploration of anyone.

 

Lya, however, had received the treatment as close as possible to one of a noble girl. Her father not only recognized her, but raised her with his legitimate family. He had given her education, a roof, a dowry. The prestige he had as Warden of the North gave her almost the treatment of a maiden. Almost, because her illegitimancy always seemed to hover over said prestige, putting her in the right place, giving access to whoever it may be.

 

Theon could be a good example. Her relationship with the Ironborn had always been complicated, orbiting the common point that Robb was rather than exists on its own. The boy mocked and teased her most of the time, but always with the mind of someone, who grew up thinking there were natural and unchangeable activities for boys and girls; and always in the exact measure so as to not cross a line with the heir of Winterfell.

 

That is, until the dark-haired lad found himself in his cups.  Then, he gave Lya those _stares_. The same ones she had seen him cast at the kitchen wenches, and at any other woman who woke up the head Theon had between his legs. Lyarra swore that she could  _feel_  those eyes upon her body, coveting her in the worst possible way; as if she were not a person but a piece of meat to be devoured.   

 

It was as if her mere existence were an invitation to dinner, making her ashamed of her own body, however covered.

 

This was the same look that the King had given her and  _gods,_  if the ruler of all Westeros,  _her_ _father's friend_ , had looked at her like that, how could Lyarra think that others would not do the same thing? Worse still, what if anyone tried something? What if it was the King himself?

 

Disgust, fear ... shame. It was not for nothing that she had fled like she had; that she stayed with Robb in the library, that she had clung to the comfort given by her brother. Or that Lya had felt a strange relief when Lady Catelyn had suggested for her to stay on the periphery of the activities while the court was at Winterfell.

 

But still ...

 

A part of her - perhaps the one incredibly resembling Arya - could not stop thinking about the absurdity of it all. For all intents and purposes, Winterfell was her father's house? If the guests did not regard Lya’s honor, shouldn’t they at least do so for the host, as Robb had said?

 

_If not all men treat women in the same way, what to say about honor_ _?_

 

A whine cut her line of thought and she looked at the wolves curled up near the fire. Grey Wind had his head resting on the side of a sleeping Ghost, staring at her with the most perfect puppy-eyes.

 

"What is it? Hungry, boy?” Lya said as she knelt to scratch the animal's head. “Do you think we can sneak into the kitchen? Or at least let you two walk a little? It's almost mid-morn, they have probably already gone on the hunt.”

 

Lyarra got up and marched to the entrance of the room, hurriedly calling; “Grey Wind, Ghost, to me.” The larger wolf soon jumped and came up to her, his big tail bobbing gaily. Ghost did not go so fast, taking its time to stretch and sneeze. The girl let out a small laugh and stared at the knob for a moment, breathing deeply and begging the Gods not to meet anyone on the way.

 

What a surprise to find Robb standing on the other side, looking just like a child caught stealing candies after bedtime.

 

“Oh. Good morning.” Lya greeted. 

 

The boy continued to stare at her for a few seconds until he seemed to recover, one of the corners of his lips rising in a half-smile, he answered; “Lya. Is everything alright? How was your night?”

 

Lya started. His voice may have sounded youthful and even, but there was something about it that seemed just off. In fact, his tone resembled the one that Robb applied with Father at some official occasion. His “Lord-voice”, Theon used to jest.

 

The urge to say something rose from Lya’s throat and landed on her tongue. But, she replied instead: “Good, good. No occurrences.”  And turned to the wolves at her feet. “I wanted to get these two down for breakfast and a walk. Is the way clear?”

 

Robb nodded, adding: “King Robert is still asleep. The hunt will probably happen after noon,” he licked his lips, seeming uncertain how to continue. Finally, he gestured to the keep's inner wing. “I need to pack some things in my room. I'll see you later?”

 

Lyarra was still perplexed by his tone, but nodded, listening to him say under this breath “Great then.” Robb flashed her a quick smile, turned on his heel, and left.

 

Which only served to bewilder Lyarra even more.

 

Leaning on the threshold, Lya called after him urgently; “Robb, is everything alright?”

 

The boy turned to her, not stopping his walk toward the rooms. A smile was on his face, but not in his eyes.

 

“Aye, aye. Just do not give as much food to Grey Wind as you give to Ghost, please? Otherwise we’ll end up with two obese hairballs instead of wolves.” He then disappeared down the hall, leaving Lyarra to stare after him in confusion.

 

* * *

 

 

Grey Wind and Ghost ate like real demons, but both grew with an almost supernatural speed, so Lyarra left them alone with their meal.

 

She, on the other hand, fiddled with her own oatmeal, still mulling over what had happened with Robb. Her brother's overall behavior was bizarre, not divulging something that obviously bothered him. And Lyarra did not like it. She did not like it at all.

 

The girl sighed, feeling a strange sense of irony in the situation. It was usually Lyarra herself who internalized everything, with Robb having to practically pull from her what the matter was. He was the more extroverted of the two, ready to make clear what he thought was wrong or right. Now he was hiding something from her ...

 

She supposed there was still the ‘protection complex’ of the heir of Winterfell to take into consideration. The need for him to take on the duty himself, to watch over all the younger siblings, Lyarra included. And the girl feared that, in the eagerness not to worry anyone, to be strong and capable, Robb would end up locking something too heavy to bear on his own. Because it should be something grand, right? Maybe what happened at the banquet with the King? Otherwise there would be no point to be so secretive.

 

Or she might be overanalyzing, as she had the habit to do.

 

Lya sighed. She needed a distraction. And one that did not involve her chambers. She wanted to play with Arya, to test her bow in the yard, even to embroider with Sansa for hours on end. If there wasn’t the need to avoid catching the King’s attention ... Maybe when they left Lyarra could take a chance on the sewing circle.

 

If the presence of a bastard did not offend Princess Myrcella or even the Queen.

 

Realizing the risk of unnecessary commotion, Lya rose from the bench, giving up the porridge and the earlier idea. She could only entertain herself until they came back from the hunt. She could speak to Robb then, and clarify the sense of apprehension set in the back of her mind.

 

She looked at the wolves, restless as she was, but at least with a full belly. Her bodyguards /companions had to walk. Considering that the southern entourage probably kept the Faith of the Seven, the Goodwood would be the best option.

 

* * *

  

No sooner had they reached the edge of the woods did Grey Wind, as his name intended, shoot through the trees. Ghost also seemed happy with the free space, but in his own way, staring at Lya before trotting silently behind its brother.

 

Left behind, but not caring, Lyarra snuggled into the cloak and marched down the path, the sounds from the fortress decreasing as she entered the forest further. It was like a spell had been cast over this place, something that made human sounds mute, leaving only the hollow sound of silence. The silence interrupted here and there by the wind or a passing bird.

 

It seemed odd, but being surrounded by this lack of noise comforted the girl and she did not feel so lonely, though alone. As the keep’s wall became mingled with the ash trees, she could pretend there was nothing new happening, only one more day when she had not yet met any of her siblings and Maester Luwin had not given her any assignment to complete. 

 

Lya closed her eyes for a minute, concentrating on that thought until she felt herself relax.  _It's fine, it's going to be just fine._

 

“Lyarra?”

 

She turned to the low voice calling to her, bowing the head slightly when saw her Father’s figure a few feet away from her, an expression of moderate surprise on his face.

 

“Father. Good Morn.”

 

Father had shaken his head and walked over to her, his heavy cloak fluttering and giving him an even more solemn and serious air.

 

“Why are you here?” Ned asked gently. “I thought I would not see you until after the hunt.”

 

“Grey Wind and Ghost slept with me. I felt sorry for them being so cooped up and brought them for some exercise,” she explained, suddenly not sure if it was correct to bring the animals to the Goodwood. They were creatures of nature, just as the trees on which the gods lived. Surely there would be no problem? Unless Father wanted tranquility, as he always sought when he went to the woods. “If you like, I'll gather them up so you can pray.”

 

Father shook his head. “Leave the animals alone. Better to spend energy here than to howl all night like Arya’s wolf.”

 

The girl had heard the howls, but they were not so close, and she had finished imitating her impromptu roommates and ignored them. With the identity of the wolf revealed, Lya let out a short twitch of lips. If Arya was already climbing the walls just thinking about having to behave ‘like a lady’, imagine how Nymeria had been discontented confined.

 

“I hope it has not bothered anyone,” she commented.

 

Father let out a half smile. Small and almost imperceptible, as Lyarra herself sometimes did. “As far as I know, it only affected Lady Stark, but it was more to do with disturbing our guests. Nothing came from the Guest House.”

 

Lyarra nodded, twirling the ends of a lock of hair between her fingers. 

 

An entire minute of silence passed until Lord Stark sighed; “It was good that I found you here. We need to talk.”

 

He motioned for them to continue walking to the weirwood and the girl followed, fingers instinctively twirling the ends of their hair. Father seldom took the time to specifically speak privately with his eldest daughter after Lya had experienced the worst of the pranking phase with Robb. Thinking about her brother's earlier behavior, she pondered whether the two actions were related.

 

On the banks of the black lagoon, Father sat heavily on a rock, Lya doing the same. On the periphery of her vision, she could see the blurs of Grey Wind’s and Ghost’s tails.

 

Ned exhaled heavily and stared at her for a moment, as if deciding where to start. Finally, he revealed; “King Robert will be going South soon ... And I with him, as his new Hand.”

 

Oh.

 

Lya stared at her hair lock, the thick strands a gleaming dark brown, almost raven black. She had pondered the reason for the royal visit, but had not entertained the thought that the King intended to bring Father to the Capital. Not when years ago, after the fall of the Dragons, Ned Stark had come home and had almost never left the North since. And not when she had always heard how the southern way of governing was so different from the northern, with its schemes and whispers...

 

But on the other hand, it had its logic: if indeed the South was as described, insidious and full of risks, having someone to trust, even more in a position as Hand was important. And Father  _was a_  friend of the King, no matter how much the man and his behavior caused shivers in Lyarra.

 

Besides, things were starting to make sense now. Father going south would mean that Robb would be in charge of Winterfell and to administer the more mundane affairs of the North. Knowing the lad, he would probably be fretting constantly on how to live up to the responsibility.

 

But, of course, the reasoning demanded confirmation.

 

“I understand. Does Robb already know?”

 

A wrinkle deepened in the lord's frown, which Lya had always interpreted as a tell when something bothered him.

 

“I'll tell to him in due time.” Father looked at her seriously. “But your brother is not the reason that I want to talk with you.”

 

Lya let go of her hair and putting hands in her lap, bewildered. She nodded to signal that she was listening.

 

Father exhaled again, looking weary.

 

“My departure from the North makes me decide the future of my children.” He proceeded, and the girl could see him picking off imaginary lint from his doublet. “Arya, Sansa and Bran will go with me to the South, just like Rickon, when he's older. However, I cannot do the same to you, daughter. The Court is not your place.”

 

He stopped, looking at her thoughtfully. Lya knew that the treatment she received at Winterfell and even from the Northern vassals was an exception that could not be sustained below the Neck. But this only disturbed her, for if she could not come down, she would remain in the keep, wouldn’t she? He would not send her away. Not unless ...

 

Lyarra felt her fingertips freeze, cold sweat starting to spring from her palms. She grabbed the skirts of the dress.

 

“Father...?"  _Oh, please,_ _don’t_ _let it be what I think it is._

 

Father put one of his hands on hers, causing little pressure for her to let go of the cloth. And maybe also to give some comfort.

 

“You're already a woman grown, love.” He said in a soft voice. “I confess I delayed it beyond reason, but it's time to get you a husband.”

 

That was the girl's turn to exhale. Deep down, she knew the probability of the occasion happening had always been something lurking in the background the instant she bled. However, that did not mean that Lya  _wanted the moment to come._  There were many reasons, mainly involving the conflict between her eternal reluctance to displease her father, the almost pathological need to want to give him pride, to the fact that she did not want a choice of that magnitude imposed on her life. Whenever she thought about it, both wishes seemed to tear her apart, making her simply not know what to do.

 

But what was the alternative? 

 

If she had been born a man, she could be a squire, go to the Citadel to become a Maester, to the bloody Wall, or even send everything to hell and take a trade in Wintertown. There would be options, more options at least than now.

 

“Cannot this wait for your return?” Lya pleaded, knowing full well that she sounded just like a child whose dessert had been denied.

 

Father shook his head. “I fear not, Lya. The work will be constant and I will not be able to get back here as much as I would wish for.”

 

He paused then, staring at her for a long moment. His face seemed obscured by some kind of shadow, as if the decision did not please him at all, but that he should proceed regardless. But not only that. Father seemed to ruminate, especially as he turned his face away from her to glance at the pond.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to live somewhere else, Lya? A place where you could be freer?”

 

Lyarra raised his eyebrows at his comment. “I have enough freedom here," she murmured, for it was the truth. It did not matter that Winterfell only gave her an intermittent sense of belonging, as Lya had always been luckier than other bastards … and other girls too.

 

He turned to her. “Is that so? Don’t you want a place that is yours, with someone who protects you? To have a family that is yours and yours alone?”

 

Lya pinched her skirts under her father's hands, not knowing how to answer the question. “Do I already have a betrothed?” She asked simply.

 

“That will be arranged. But I will send ravens in your favor.” Another pause, but this time he met her eyes. “Lya, I'm doing this to make sure you're happy. Happy and safe. With a husband who takes care of you. I will be looking for your betrothed the same way I would for your sisters. Someone brave, kind and strong. That's the least I can promise you.”

 

Lya's heart squeezed a little at his words. Of course, Father would not do any differently, and that only added more pain to the whole situation. For he loved her. And this notion, that he would never send her away to suffer at someone else's hand, forced a resignation within her. Because Lya loved her father too and was grateful for the affection she received from him.

 

Lya put a smile on her face. A mere stretch of lips, but still. “Thank you, Father. I will do as you wish.”

 

Ned returned a small smile, perhaps with a little more goodwill than she. The lord rose from where he was, implying that the conversation was over, and offered his arm to his daughter, who accepted it and they both went down the path of the Godswood.

 

When they were halfway through the gate, Lya heard him comment; “Who knows, I might end up arranging something for you at Dorne. You always liked to read so much about the place.”

 

Lyarra bit her tongue. That ignited a new topic for her.

 

Lya read about everything to be sincere, a non-frowned-upon alternative to sewing as riding or shooting were. Her tastes leaned to history, but mainly about other cultures, the South principality captivating her attention more than anything; in equal parts for its treatment towards bastards and also for being the land of a certain Ashara Dayne, a noblewoman who had captured Ned Stark's attention in her youth and who might possibly be her mother. At least it was what Lyarra heard from the whispers of the castle.

 

“Father?” She called quietly, unconsciously pulling closer to him.

 

“Hm?”

 

"Does my mother know I will be marrying? Does she even care?”

 

Father turned to her. His voice sounded grave and with a pang of sadness; “When everything is settled, we'll speak about her, alright?”

 

It was not enough for an answer, but Lya decided not to insist. She just nodded and they both went out into the yard, wolves in pursuit.

 

* * *

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really trying to be faithful to Jon's character, but I understand it might have some changes because of the genderswap (and age, but that is minor). He is not his mother, he is not Arya. Although he/she might want to have something of his/her own, I don't personally think he/she would denied Ned, if he asked/demand Jon/Lya anything. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts, and if Lya doesn't sound too much like an OC.
> 
> Also, please point to me if any noun is weird. I read the books in portuguese, and i'm writing this originally in the same language. I proofread, but something might be passed and google translated it in a nonsensical way.


	5. Interlude - Ned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remorse was always bitter his mouth at the thought that he had never told Catelyn about the bastard's origin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this isn't the best chapter ever (made more to procrastinate and clear may black mood at the end of last semester), but still. Read, I hope you all enjoy, and please let me know if any part is non-sensical or just purely wrong.

 

 

 

Ned did not quite understand the supposed fun existing in a hunt.

 

Perhaps because he was from the North, where the activity was linked to subsistence and preparation for hard times. For a Stark, these meanings were impregnated into the family's own banner. Winter was coming, after all.

 

Robert, on the other hand, seemed to be more than entertained looking for deer from the top of the horse. No sooner had the king woken up, then the monarch had already shouted orders to prepare horses and hounds, no matter that the arrangements had already been made hours ago. But that was not what had particularly caught Lord Stark's attention.

 

With regret, the northerner saw the expression of tiredness on an old friend, as much the constant air of discomfort and impatience, falsely appeased by wine, a woman’s skirt and, of course, hunting. The crown weighed on him like an annoyance, more so with the death of Jon Arryn, the Hand, whom both Robert and Ned himself loved like a father.

 

“Ah, let's get on with it!” Robert boomed, his cheeks redder than apples. “Oh, what a life, not having to go back to that woman, let the Others carry her! Come, Ned! What are you waiting for!?”

 

“Your Grace.” Eddard approached the horse, a small movement in the corner of his mouth showing good humor. In a low tone, a joke was allowed, “if you continue like this, you will scare all the animals into the woods.”

 

“Ha! More time for the dogs to track, then!” the king exclaimed. “I'm telling you, Ned. The longer I do not have to look at those Cersei brothers, the better. As well as she. That one seems always ready to spill venom into something.”

 

Ned simply adjusted the reins of his mount. He had no sympathy for the Lannisters, but he knew it was not his place to say anything. So much the better would be to focus on the hunt.

 

Some of the scouts passed, Robb and Theon among them. The ironborn had his usual expression of someone who never took anything seriously, but Robb looked strangely taciturn.

 

Ned frowned. He would need to speak to his son, both to warn him of Ned and his siblings departing for King’s Landing, and to remind him he was no longer fit to behave like an impulsive child.

 

For Ned had seen how his firstborn reacted to Robert's ill-advised tirade the day before, practically hurling daggers at Robert with his eyes. He might not have been entirely wrong, for the king had lapsed, exposing both Lyarra and Catelyn, making everyone's stomach churn, including Ned himself. But still…The boy was below Robert in hierarchy and owed him respect, even if inflamed to defend the honor of his sister and mother.

 

Wolf blood. Quick to defend its pack, as well as to hate and love, just like Brandon and Lyanna had been. And look where that had led.

 

A “hm” sounded at Ned’s side. Robert had noticed the boys, too.

 

“Sad your bastard could not accompany us. She must ride like a demon, just like your sister.”

 

If Ned had held his tongue before, now he had discreetly bit the inside of his own cheek.

 

Robert was not at all discreet about his interest in Lya, obviously transferring the memory of his old bride to the vessel presented. Ned had hoped this wouldn’t happen, because to him Lyarra was not so similar to Lyanna: her eyes were smaller, the lips thinner, all her temper more restrained and milder than the She-Wolf of Winterfell ever was. If he was looking for a reminder of his sister, Ned would look at Arya, wild as her cub Nymeria.

 

However, there was a Stark's resemblance in all Lya's appearance. Maybe it was enough to summon specters from beyond the grave for Robert. A miscalculation, it was true, and one that Ned should remedy at once. He owed it to both Lya and Lyanna.

 

Her sister's voice still sounded intermittently in his head.  _Promise me, Ned, promise me._

 

“She's been with moon pains since last night. Making her ride for miles atop of a horse would do no good.”

 

A first step had been to drive Lya away from Robert, which the girl had accepted without reluctance. That morning, after leaving the Godswood, his daughter had sought refuge in the library with the promise of hiding before the party returned from the hunt, the two wolves following her as shadows. However, a more permanent measure was necessary.

 

“Ha! Moon pains, head pains, labor pains. Women are machines of pain, Ned. The Others take me when Myrcella's turn comes,” Robert replied impatiently, moving away into the forest.

 

Hence Ned was rescued from the idea of marriage. He feared that, unmarried in Winterfell, it might not be long before Robert insisted the girl go to the capital, and one can only go against the wishes of a king a handful of times, no matter the relationship between Hand and Crown. Placing Lyarra under the tutelage of a lord who wanted her well, if he did not dissuade the king altogether, would give Lya vassals and weapons to defend herself. Not only that; It would be a way for the girl to have a life of her own.

 

Remorse was always bitter his mouth at the thought that he had never told Catelyn about the bastard's origin, the years passing to the point of sediment in the Tully's distaste for her husband's alleged bastard and a permanent melancholy settled in Lya's eyes. But it was necessary to protect everyone from Robert's fury. So much better that he was the only traitor to the new monarch of the Seven Kingdoms. In the meantime, he could only fulfill the sincere promise he made to his daughter (for, by all the gods, Ned loved Lyarra as if she had come from him); to find a worthy husband, in a place where she could act without so much self-withdrawal, with a family she could claim proudly as her own. At the same time, thinking of unions below the Neck would give Catelyn more peace of mind.

 

His wife is a good mother and, as such, she worries. That Ned favored Arya and Lyarra over Sansa (which was absurd, he was fully aware that all his daughters had him wrapped on their little fingers); that Lyarra would shame him before the bannermen (equally purposeless, given how much the brunette looked to him for approval); that the relationship between Lya and Robb was something beyond fraternal.

 

Ned looked at the boys next the archers at that moment; Theon with his bow in hand, Robb with a spear resting on his lap, and the absence of the third part of that trio resounding like a bell. Lord Stark had grown accustomed to seeing them together, feigned duels in which Lya was a half-reluctant princess, training in the courtyard, discussing lessons. Between the three there was a singular dynamic, more so the relationship between the youngest.

 

With a squeeze in the chest, it reminded Ned of how Lyanna and Ben had been, divided from others in their own language and exclusive gestures, as if there were in a land set apart from Westeros, with unique customs and whose access was restricted. Cat, on the other hand, saw another subtext, loaded with hidden intentions ... but it did not make sense.

 

No? They had grown up together and it was not as if they ignored the other siblings or even Greyjoy. They just laughed, danced, and looked after each other like the summer children they were.

 

 _Does Robb already know?_   Was the first thing Lyarra had asked when Ned had told her about going South.

 

“OI!”

 

The sound of Theon's exclamation broke his thoughts. Returning to focus on the lads, he had seen the ironborn protecting his nape, Robb with a hard countenance.

 

“You can't just resort to violence all of a sudden! Downed God, what's the matter with you, Robb!?”

 

“I'm your friend, but there's a limit too, Greyjoy!”

 

“Oh, have I affected your sensibilities, lassie?!”

 

“THEON. ROBB. ENOUGH,” Lord Stark interjected, moving the horse toward the boys.

 

Robb at least had the decency to pale when saw his father approaching, seeming to regain his senses then, at the very least, though it would not get him out of trouble.

 

When Ned was already in front of them, Robert's voice echoed through the trees.

 

“Leave them, Ned. Boys will be boys!”        

                  

It may be the case. However, it did not justify assaulting each other, physically or otherwise. Eddard turned to the duo, stern, and decreed, “We'll talk when we return. Until then, I do not want you close to each other, understood?”

 

The boys, on the other hand, tried to justify themselves at the same time:

 

“It was Robb—”

 

“But, Father­—”

 

_“ _Understood?”__

 

The tone did not allow discussion, which was noted in the way they both seemed to wither simultaneously, a “Yes, my lord” coming out of the young mouths. Theon was the first to comply with the order then, pulling his mount to where the archers were already struggling in the woods, frightened by the presence of Lord of Winterfell. Robb had remained, his head down, but a tight line marking his jaw.

 

Ned raised an eyebrow.

 

“He was talking about Lya ... And Sansa as well,” the boy added the name almost as a second thought, which did not go unnoticed by Ned. “About marrying one of the two,” the redhead explained in a monotone, but still clearly uncomfortable with the idea. Possibly angry too, judging by the wrinkle marking his forehead.

 

Lord Stark sighed inwardly. Wolf blood.

 

“Which, first of all, it is not your business to worry, and secondly, there is reason to hit someone with a spear handle,” he cut off his son. Nonetheless, a feeling of tightness bothered his stomach. He needed to talk to Robb about his departure and Lyarra’s marriage arrangements. “We'll speak later. Now go. And away from Theon.”

 

Watching his son leave, still half-drawn, Ned could not help but hear Cat's voice in the back of his mind:  _Lyarra, Lyarra._   _Always Lyarra._   _Do you really believe there is nothing there, Ned?_

 

Yes.

 

But  _maybe._..

 

No, of course not.

 

Ned shook his head and followed his men. They would not get anything like that.

 

* * *

TBC

 


	6. Lyarra III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Incredible how suddenly all thoughts of bastards, Valirian poetry and all that had happened seemed so small and unimportant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, point to me any incongruities and in what in any way I can improve your reading, please. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! =)

 

 

 

When Lyarra entered the library, it was with every intention to make time pass faster. Her fingers went through ancient and dusty tomes, pages and pages of History before and after the Conquest; Valirian poetry; some scattered writings on the magic of Asshai.  However, her mind could not be fixed on any of these subjects, jumping between the various events of that morning.

 

Anxiety chilled her stomach as she thought of the changes that would soon take place: Father leaving Winterfell with her siblings to the center of the political intrigue of the Seven Kingdoms (gods, not to mention Arya at Court, how would that work?) and her own departure, in a not too distant future, to marry someone still faceless.  All so fast and sudden, triggered by a single visit from the King.

 

(A king whose presence Lyarra had been able to avoid and would continue to do so for as long as possible).

 

Not to mention that in the interim between, Lyarra would be practically alone with Lady Catelyn as Lady of the place. The girl had an impulsive fear of the situation, it was true, for she knew (or at least hoped) that, though her father's wife did not care for her, Lady Catelyn would never do anything just out of spite. In addition, Robb would stand to mediate their relationship.

 

This, too, was not ideal, if one give some thought on the matter.  At the age of seventeen, her brother would be required to bear the responsibilities of the Lord of Winterfell, aided by his own mother no less. If Robb had to keep separating familial animosities from time to time on top of running a keep,  _and the feaking North_ , it was going to be chaos. Should Lyarra walk away, recognizing with a twinge in her heart that she would be more a burden than anything else? And away,  _where?_  And  _how_ , considering that until Father sent for her, she was to stay in Winterfell?

 

Lya impatiently blew a thick strand of hair away from her eyes. The immediate prospects did not look good, they did not look good at all.

 

“If you have finished your rumination, my lady, could you reach manuscript on your right?”

 

Lyarra glanced around quickly to realize that the voice came from below, from a little man with eyes of mismatch colors and ironic smirk. He was richly dressed in black and crimson, the golden buttons of the gibbon shaped like small lion heads.

 

Even without Ayra's constant comments on The Imp, it would be easy to recognize Tyrion Lannister anywhere.

 

 _A nobleman._   _The bloody brother of the Queen._   _And you are standing there like a door._  There was the recrimination in her head, sounding horribly like Catelyn Stark. Lyarra hastened to give a small nod of deference:

 

“My Lord?”

 

The dwarf's grimace seemed to open a little more.

 

“The scroll on your right.  _Engines of War._  As you can tell by my stature, it is very difficult to get it from here. Could you please reach it for me?” He repeated the request, staring Lya up and down.

 

The girl nodded, turning and picking up the indicated roll, its case heavy and worn by time, despite the apparent care. A very old issue, the kind that children were forbidden to handle on their own, during Mr. Luwin's classes.

 

Lyarra stared scroll for a while, feeling the burn of Lannister's eyes on her. With a mental sigh, she turned to the little man with the desired manuscript locked in her arms.

 

“Oh, thank you, my lady bastard.” 

 

The girl tried not to twist her nose at the title. And It just seemed to spark the other's curiosity.

 

“Oh? I see I offended you, my bastard lady. My sincere apologies for that. Dwarves tend to not have much tact I’m afraid, and with yesterday’s commotion, I seemed to forget to what would be the best treatment in the case.” He smiled sardonically.

 

Lya pursed her lips.

 

“I'm not a lady. And must you call me a bastard every time?”

 

Tyrion's smile remained intact.

 

“Oh, but you're Ned Stark's bastard, are you not? The Snow of Winterfell.”

 

His expression was a mocking one, but the tone seemed rather curious, which confused Lyarra to no end. The eyes, perhaps by color, or by size, were of no use to read the Lannister's intentions.  Unsure, she hugged the case protecting the valyrian scroll protectively against her chest (whether to protect herself or the issue itself, she could not tell).

 

“Lord Eddard Stark is my father. But I do not know anything about being Winterfell's snow particularly. It is summer and this is the North. There is snow wherever you go.”

 

The dwarf snorted with laughter.

 

“That's true. But I judged by your father's renowned honor, you are, in fact, a singular snow, my bastard lady.”

 

Lyarra pressed the case harder. Tyrion seemed to notice it, for he raised his hands in a placating tone.

 

“And there I go again. Please do not take your discomfort out on this rare piece of literature. Maybe is it more comfortable if I know your name?”

 

She forced herself not to frown. Now Tyrion had sounded almost gallant.

 

“Lyarra Snow, my lord.”

 

“Ah, Lyarra, a beautiful northern name. I am Tyrion Lannister. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 

Lyarra bit the inside of her cheek discreetly. With that beginning, she would for sure be stuck with what Sansa always called “The Game of Courtesy," one comes and goes with little questions and amenities that most of the time failed to get somewhere.

 

The brunette groaned internally. This kind of conversation seemed much more like a match of verbal shuttlecock and the bastard had no real patience for it. But the whole posture of the man in front of her intrigued her. It seemed sincere, but not so much, which might compel her to participate in the dialogue-dance-game.

 

Besides, her conscience—that voice that sounded just like Lady Stark and scolded her every time she lost the composure and manner—would not let her get away from Lannister and hide somewhere else in the castle so soon.

 

“Equally, my lord,” she replied, releasing the poor scroll from her arms and handing it to Tyrion. “I believe that the copy will still be in good condition.”

 

Lannister smiled at him again, accepting what had been given him.

 

“Certainly, certainly.” He looked away to examine the offer, so broad and heavy that he could barely hold it comfortably in his hands. “It's rare to find a full edition and it's really made to last. Heavy parchment, case of auroch leather. Splendid, really. I am afraid, however, that I might need support to enjoy the reading. Could you tell me where one could do it more safely?”

 

Lya gave a small nod and guided Lannister to the area where the children did their lessons, with three tables were arranged in U-shape, heavy oak chairs surrounding them. In some seats were hay-stuffed cushions made to lift those who still could not reach the tops comfortably. On these, there were solid tin stands for candles, tall and with ample bases to protect the wood from hot wax and fire. Completing the lighting and heating, the fireplace burned in one corner and, on the other, large windows like no others in Winterfell would let the light from the patio in.

 

"Ah, a great place you have here. More than appropriate,” the little man exclaimed, approaching one of the cushioned chairs and placing the case on the table. It was a very solid reading indeed, and in spite of Lannister's clear care, the clash between leather and wood produced a dry noise that echoed through the empty space of the library.

 

In response, there was a yelp, drawing Tyrion and Lya's attention to the litter. Ghost and Grey Wind, after the meal and exercise, were quietly cuddling by the fire. They would be huge, but they were still young pups. No doubt they ended up sleeping in wait for Lyarra. Now there they were, two pairs of raised ears, two pairs of alert, staring eyes measuring the dwarf.

 

Who, in turn, seemed equally intrigued by the two creatures.

 

“And are those formidable beasts yours?" Lord Tyrion asked with one hand over the scroll, but his disjointed eyes glued to the wolves. This time, Lya could read the poignant curiosity in his expression, though veiled by a thin layer of caution.

 

“The white is mine. Grey belongs to my brother Robb,” she said, half wondering if should point out that each of the Stark children (and Lya herself) had their own giant wolf: In all, six beasts that would probably be the size of small horses. But she dropped the idea as soon as it popped into her head. The attitude would feel too much like telling an unfulfilled advantage, and that did not seem useful. Or safe, for that matter.

 

Lyarra remained silent, which did not last long. Tyrion turned to her with his smirk.

 

“Your half-brother, Robb. He's the oldest, isn’t he? Forgive me, there are so many, and last night the wine was good and abundant. I ended up not actually recording the names.”

 

Lya paused a moment, then realized the slide.

 

“Yes, my  _older half-brother_ ,” she replied, the expression rolled from her mouth like poppy milk, numbing everything on the way, leaving a nasty sense of heavy tingling. One of her greatest resentments was the need to make clear the relationship between her and her siblings, to reinforce that the bond between them was incomplete, weak, not important.  _They are not your brothers and sisters, it is not your name, not your family either._

 

Lyarra folded her arms defensively and unconsciously. The discomfort must have been clear as both wolves got up and trotted toward the humans, stationing themselves by her skirts. Grey Wind gave off a low, low growl, Ghost bared its teeth, silent and macabre.

 

“Oh, gods, I'm not getting one right today. Now not only I’m offending you, but your pets as well. Pretty protective, huh?”

 

“Yes, they are, but trained,” Lya said dryly, but still far from being harsh. She turned to the pups, resting her hands on the fluffy necks. “Wind, Ghost. Here with me. Stay. Sit.”

 

Lannister kept a respectful distance, but fascination still shone in his eyes.

 

“Sensitive too. They sense your uneasiness.”

 

When the wolves seemed to settle down a little, Lyarra turned to the dwarf, letting a hiss come out:

 

“If you notice my discomfort, why are you so anxious to provoke it? It is not gallant. Or polite.”

 

“Ah, perhaps not very chivalrous, but there is an important lesson there, whether you are a lady or not.  You are a bastard and you must remember that, because that's what the world will see your whole life. Make it your strength and this fact will never hurt you anymore.”

 

Lya raised one eyebrow.

 

“You speak as if you know what it is like.”

 

“I'm a dwarf. All dwarfs are bastards in the eyes of their parents.”

 

She ruminated on that information as she stroked Ghost's fur after Grey. Sincerity seemed to echo from the other's gesture, no matter how strange the way Tyrion had given his piece of advice.

 

"Oh," she began. “Hath not a bastard eyes? Hath not a bastard hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?  _If you prick us, do we not bleed?”_

 

Tyrion smiled openly for the first time.

 

“I am glad to hear that in the North you still know the Bard of Valyria, but I am almost sure that Lys's Merchant has no bastards in its plot.”

 

And it was Lyarra's turn to stretch her lips.

 

“Perhaps. But the meaning is the same.”

 

* * *

 

 

Incredible how suddenly all thoughts of bastards, Valirian poetry and all that had happened seemed so small and unimportant.

 

They heard a howl, sharp and icy as a bad omen. The wolves stiffened and fired at the door, making a fuss capable to wake the dead until they were released. Once the door was open, the beasts ran to the northern wing of Winterfell. Lyarra tried to excuse herself from Tyrion (and the irony of it did not escape her), who set out to accompany her as far as the Ghost and Grey would have gone, regardless.

 

In retrospect, she should have anticipated something when a scream followed the symphony of howls. What else could it be but a tragedy? Because there was no other word to describe finding Bran near the broken tower, so small and pale, limbs drawn at odd angles.  _Bran._

 

A small commotion had already formed when she arrived, with workers already moving to check on the boy. Lyarra, her eyes burning with water, advanced through the people with every intention of reaching her little brother.

 

A small but strong hand wrenched her wrist and stopped her. Then the voice of the younger Lannister echoed:

 

“No! The boy is still breathing; no one touches him until the maester arrives!”

 

Choirs of “Maester Luwin!” and “bring Maester Luwin," expanded in the air until they became a disconnected noise, which  served to focus Lyarra's attention even more on Bran. He was breathing, yes, she now saw the tiny rise and fall on his chest, but that did not comfort her. On the contrary, it reminded Lya of a birdling fallen from the nest, broken and too fragile to fly.

 

She freed herself from Tyrion’s grasp and approached her brother. Bran was not a bird, nor a squirrel. He was just a little boy, a wolf cub, a creature that was not made to hang from heights. He had always been careful, true, but how often had Father reprimanded him? Lady Catelyn? Robb? Lyarra Herself? By the gods, even Septa Mordane had already scolded him to behave more like a little lord than a stray cat and stop jumping from roof to roof.

 

Lyarra was still staring, standing, afraid to touch Bran and make things worse. Her hands, wet with cold sweat, trembled. She grabbed her skirts just to have somewhere to hold.   _There is blood running down his temple._

 

An exclamation of astonishment broke her stupor and she turned to the source of the sound, to the entrance of the pavilion and to a pair of frightened eyes that watched the scene.  _Arya._

 

“BRAN!” the younger girl screamed, trying to cross the circle of people who gathered around the boy “What happened to him? Who did this? LYA!”

 

Arya’s tearful voice felt like a stab, and two thick tears begin to trickle down Lya’s cheeks. She had to take her sister away from there.

 

Lyarra reached out to Arya, taking her in her arms and gently pushing the younger towards the main keep.

 

“Arya, let's go to your room,” Lya whispered.

 

“WHAT!? No way! What happened to him? Lya, his neck is  _crooked_!” Arya answered, her voice choking and struggling to get rid of the older sister.

 

“He fell, Arry,” Lya explained bluntly,  _because what else could she say_  ? “Maester Luwin is coming.”  At that same time, the maester appeared at a brisk pace, followed by two more men with a stretcher. “Come on, we'll wait in your room”.

 

“BUT ...!” The girl whined. Lyarra forced herself not to cry too.

 

“Arya,  _please,”_ She hissed. “You and I are not going to help here. Do you want Bran to hear us cry like two mourners?”

 

The speech had been hard, but it seemed to stop Arya, who jumped on Lyarra’s neck and began to cry with her face hidden on Lya’s hair. The older took a deep breath, hugged her little sister and left as fast as she could.

 

All the way, Lyarra bit her tongue so she would not hiccup and startle Ayra in the process. It was particularly difficult not to give way when, barely stepping into the keep’s threshold, she heard Lady Catelyn's wail of horror.

_Father, Robb ... where in heavens are you both?_

* * *

 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES, I shamelessly inserted William Shakespeare into another universe that was not even analogous to the correct historical time and vilified "The Merchant of Venice" to serve my dark purposes.
> 
> Who misses Robb's POV? I do! \O/


	7. Robb II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They, Robb and Lya, were the oldest ones. It was their responsibility, no matter how lost they felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was pissed with real life issues (phone broke. can't recuperate the work and academic contacts. It's all a mess). What I did? That's right, aggressively translated this chapter.
> 
> Hope you enjoy. Please, let me know if anything is off. 
> 
> Happy Easter! Many fluffly bunnies, pastel colored eggs and the best chocolatefor you all!

 

 

 

Robb's blood froze in his own veins. For a second, or maybe for less than that, for in the next one the same blood was flowing again, swift and boiling like the waters running through the castle walls.

His immediate wish was to break into the room, to demand that Lyarra stay with her kin, far from the King's lust; to require Father not to listen to the Mother. He even took a step towards the door, but restrained himself. "Stop and think" he had been told the day before. And with that phrase ringing in his spirit, Robb turned on his heel and returned to the living wing.

For the last few years he had sought to understand the ill feelings Mother had for Lyarra. By heavens above, the lad understood the gravity of his father's actions and repudiated them as he should. However, its fruit had no taint or guilt. Lya had not asked to be born, had not made contact with the one who had stimulated the breaking of Ned Stark's honor and had not proceeded to dishonor her own house. It seemed to him that a punishment was being imposed solely  _because Lya existed._

The prospect of marriage was not even the reason for his revolt. Every day he rebuked himself, repeating mentally he could not fulfill the feelings he had for Lyarra, that marrying unknown parties was as much her fate as his own. But now, so urgently and below the Neck, as Mother so vehemently insisted, so much closer, easier and more comfortable the King's reach? This was already a total lack of  _common sense_.

The wood of Lya's bedroom door stared at him impassively. Robb stopped, feeling the breath rise from his lungs, his thoughts in confusion. He had abandoned one impulse and had yielded to another, practically making a beeline back to her, but now realizing he was without a plan. Should he tell Lyarra about his parent’s intent? Or about Lady Stark’s thoughts regarding their relationship (and of the truth he had hidden for so long)? Should he throw himself at the girl's feet, kissing where he could reach and promise the escape that he had articulated in his craziest dreams?

Before he could fix on some conduct, the door opened, causing Robb to startle.

Lya's eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight of him.

“Oh. Good morning.”

Her smile was small, unsure, yet sincere. Filled with a reserved trust, aimed at so few people in the world, he was lucky enough to be among them. A smile made to wait and receive only good things, not news of separation and disapproval. Or of a passion that should not even exist in the first place.

Robb's mouth dried to the point he felt the walls of his throat sticking together, imprisoning whatever words that may wanted to get out on what he had heard earlier.

He forced a stretch of lips.

“Lya. Is everything alright? How was your night?”

For if there was anything to extinguish his impetuosity, was the fear of hurting Lya somehow. If he would make a fool of himself for her, he would play role of a coward even more.

“Well, well. No occurrences.”  Lya replied, her head dropping slightly to the side. The girl pointed at the wolves watching behind her skirts. "I wanted to get them down and feed them. Is the way clear?”

_And what else do the cowards do than run away?_

An excuse about the hunt, the room and anything to get out of there. A nod dismissing her concern (because obviously Lya would see through every veil he tried to put over her eyes) and steps in march to his chamber.

Alone and contained within the walls of his room, he exhaled, feeling the frustration burn his guts. His fists clenched in fury no longer restrained, and they struck once, twice, thrice with force against the wooden door behind him.

More than once Robb had heard that there was wolf blood in his veins. Maybe it was the same blood that made him clench his teeth and practically growl in anger.

 

* * *

 

Robb tried unsuccessfully to calm himself still inside the room, pacing from side to side like a beast in a cage that was too small. In the end, he'd only waste time and the rug until he was supposed to find the others for the hunt.

The whole way to the yard was automatic and heavy. Some were already gathering there, and Robb had gone to Harwin’s side, helping with the horses simply to have something to do with his hands and not to think so fixedly of the regret he felt, the growing desire to take Lyarra in his arms and leave from Winterfell as soon as possible.

"The little shit looks so full of himself with that crossbow.” Theon murmured and took one of the animals from Robb, adjusting the bridle, a sneer on his lips. "Really, he's compensating for something.”

In fact, Joffrey had arrived and was near the entrance to the keep, arrogantly displaying the unloaded weapon to Sansa, who threw him long, enamored glances.

The redhead turned to the horse in his hand and twisted his nose. Robb's first impression of the Crown Prince was soon confirmed, and now the heir of the North had to count mentally until ten in order not to punch the blond's pretty face every time he saw it. It did not improve his mood laying his eyes on Joffrey so soon, especially when Sansa seemed so thoroughly impressed with him.

 _Too much_ impressed. And, for the look of it, much more for the idea of the crowned prince presented than for the person of your Royal Prick himself.

"It's not funny, Theon.” Robb practically spat as he separated his own mount and one of the spears.

Theon chuckled and adjusted the quiver he had on his shoulders. When the ironborn himself was on his horse, scorned:

“Oh, come on.  _It's funny_ ,  _especially_  since Sansa will probably get married to him, the way she sighs to your parents how much she's _in love_.”

And marriage again. That word was already coming to Robb’s list of the most hated words in his vocabulary. Even so if the resulting combinations were as preposterous as they seemed.

Robb cast a stern glance at his friend and climbed onto the horse.

"It's not funny, Theon.” He repeated. "Let this matter be.”

The ironborn gave him a perplexed look, probably not quite understanding what had soured the other's sense of humor. But also, how could he? The subject was an unhappy one (at leats), making him to worry for the fate of the middle sister and adding one more weight to what he already carried on the shoulders, remembering him of the situation with his older sister. So much better to be quiet and not let his thoughts get mixed up and leaked into the world.

For if anything fell on Theon's tongue, it would definitely spread like fire on a dry crop.

With a noisy exclamation, King Robert seemed to warn everyone that he was finally ready for the pursuit. At his side, Father, also already perched in his mount, would make one or other comment in a low voice to the ruler.

_Father._

As soon as this farce disguised as a hunt was over, Robb  _had_  to have a word with him. He was not yet sure how to introduce that he eavesdropped something not intended for his ears, but should try to dissuade Father at least from sending Lyarra south.

The horn had sounded and the hunt finally begun. Horses, dogs, weapons, and men passed the East Gate towards Wolf’s Wood. Robb pulled the reins and followed in the rear.

Soon Theon to came after him.

“Hey Hey!” He began, a pitiful expression on his face. "What I said before. Was a joke. You don’t need to take so seriously.”

Which was true and made the redhead kick himself mentally. Theon had nothing to do with what was going on in Robb's mind. Considering the older lad's temper, he had not said anything out of his usual.

Robb shook his head.

“Sorry, I overreacted.”

And there came the Theon characteristic smirk .Phew. He had been forgiven.

“Yes, you did. Come on, let's take this sorry palfrey of yours and go further into the woods, lordling. I want to show these Southerners how to really shoot”.

The lordling in question nodded and followed his friend along the open path.

Being honest, Robb tried to focus on what he was doing, but his attention did not stayed for long, no matter the effort. The way was pretending to be alert for possible game and to let others search for ways and tracks, time passing slowly.

 _If only I had brought Grey,_  he had come to think,  _distraction would be easier._   _But he would also leave Lya without another wolf and the less of these people wanting to get closer to her, the better..._

"You know..." Theon said, as they examined a trail near the archers, "if you're so upset, you could introduce another suitor to your father. For Sansa.”

Robb did not even look away from the path. He just let out an "Hm" asking for clarification, which came quickly:

“Oh well. I am the heir of the Iron Islands, after all. It is not, like, the king of fucking everything, but it is better than the blond doll over there”

Robb's head turned so hard his neck popped. 

“Are you serious!?” When the other did not answer, the lad amended “Blimey, Theon, Sansa is thirteen!”

The friend shrugged, as if he had exposed a very obvious and perfectly manageable situation.

"It does not have to be for now! And it's just an idea. I'm already your friend. We can forge an alliance between the North and the Iron Islands to formalize everything. Besides, if it feels so wrong with Sansa, I do not mind marrying Lyarra. She is practically legitimate, even more so with you as a lord. And she is quite fuckable when she isn’t making that face of someone who ate spoiled turnips.”

Robb's incredulity lasted half a second, until he reached the part where he mentioned the older sister. From then on, his sights turned red, and he sent all the self-control from that morning to the seventh hell.

"She's my sister, you cretin! Have more respect!” Robb spat, enraged.

In a swift movement, he turned the spear handle and hit the back of Theon’s neck.

"You can't just resort to violence all too sudden! Downed God, what's the matter with you, Robb!?”

"I'm your friend, but there's a limit too, Greyjoy!"

"Oh, Have I affected your sensibilities, lassie?!"

It only inflamed the redhead, the indignation of the other. The nerve of feeling offended, ignoring how much he had overstepped. Theon sometimes did not know when to stop.

And Robb would fight back, _make him stop_ , whether the ironborn wanted it or not. 

That if the call of the lord his father had not ripped air like lightning.

“ ROBB! THEON! ENOUGH!”

His voice had struck him like a physical blow, as it had always been in Robb’s life, and the boy had to resist the urge to shrug his shoulders in embarrassment. Wolf blood yes, but pup even so. And one that invariably looked to his parent for approval and support.

However not detain in his anger, Robb could feel the tip of his ears tingling with shame and an attempt at justification to come out of his lips, still knowing full well that it would be in vain. When the explanation had been requested, he attempted to communicate as much as he could without exposing the central point - to which Father was partly responsible. It was not a topic to be discussed on horseback, with the bearded-pig of a king nearby.

And Father, gods bless him, seemed to know just this, for he let out wearily:

“We'll talk later. Now go. And away from Theon.”

Like the good son he always sought to be, the boy pulled the reins, going in the opposite direction to Theon. However, he could not fail to take one last look at his father, who, much like Robb himself, also seemed to be mulling something.

This made the lad pause for a moment, pondering whether the future conversation was more than a lesson in property. Robb had acted on impulse and without decorum with Theon, it was true, yet it would not be enough to merit attention after a warning, no? It was not as if Robb did not know the responsibilities to be laid on his head as the future Lord of Winterfell. And he was no longer a child, to be seated on a bench and taught about what should and should not be done.

(That difference Robb knew better than anyone).

He turned on his horse and followed the rest of the column. It might be also be a moment when he approached the plans heard earlier that morning, or at least bring the topic into the light. For all intents and purposes, Robb should wait.

Or that was his intention until Aden, one of the guards who remained in the keep, leaped out of the trees like a ghost, exclaiming to his father:

“Sire! Sire! Lady Stark asks for you presence at once! Something has happened to Lord Brandon!”

 

* * *

 

The scene that presented itself to Robb made a lump settle in his throat.

Bran looked like a wax doll, pale, faint, and tiny in the middle of the furs. And  _Mother_.. She practically did not respond to anything but tending to the middle brother, just casting a desolate glance at them as they entered the chamber, led by Mistress Luwin.

She might never admit it, but Robb was very aware of Mother’s special affection for Bran. But then, how to avoid it? He had always been such a clever and intelligent boy, making friends with anyone. Also so curious, always with the most absurd questions about ordering knights and stories from the North and beyond, always asking for more books and information, when he did not go out himself to explore the grounds of the castle. It was understandable a particular pain to see him now lying on a bed like that. For Robb there was even a bitter aftertaste in his tongue, as if this was something that should never happen.

And maybe it was not just sadness. For, as much as Bran explored, climbed and wandered the walls and roofs, he had always been so careful. Never, not once, has Robb seen the boy or even slip, let alone lose his balance so. Not even when someone yelled at him to come down.

Meistre Luwin's speech entered his thoughts.  _The situation is still critical and there must be time for the bones to mend themselves..._

Robb let out a breath of air through his nostrils and looked away sorrowfully. Let the old gods and the new intervene in Bran’s favor.

A movement on the periphery of his vision made him raise the head and check out the room.

“Sansa?” He called his middle sister, who was in the middle of the hallway, looking like someone not very sure in what to do.

The girl looked up from where she was trying to straighten her bodice and gave him a smile that the boy knew to be taught by Septa Mordane.

“Oh, Robb. I wonder if you and Father need anything." she said in a weak voice, almost cracking, but the girl seemed to straighten her spine, revealing an air of modesty and calm.

That is, if Robb had not seen the female shoulders shaking even so slightly.

"San, what are you doing here alone? You should be with Arya or Lya...”

She denied, inhaling deeply. Finally she replied:

"They're in the room all afternoon and I'm the eldest daughter. A lady must endure tragedies with dignity and make herself useful.”

_Oh, Sansa._

He sighed in exasperation and wrapped his sister in a bear hug. (Or at least as much as he could. Honestly, sometimes he thought Sansa would be taller than all of them).

“R-robb!” She tried to protest, without strength and with a watery voice. “That's not the things are don –“

He just pressed the redhead to his chest, murmuring as best he could:

"San, you do not have to do this. It's alright to be sad.”

His own voice sounded tight and for Robb, not really able to provide some comfort. But it may have looked different to Sansa, who had sobbed and buried her face in his tunic. It would not be long before the fabric began to get slightly damp.

Robb just took a deep breath and tried to provide the necessary heat by running one of his hands down her sister's back and releasing smalls "shhh" and "All right" in comfort. When she seemed to calm down a bit he gently pushed her away, enough to see her face red and her eyes glittering with tears.

"Is Bran going to make it?" She asked with a small of voice.

He nodded, the urge to calm her more than any doubt he'd heard from Maester Luwin.

"I think so ... But it's going to take a while." Robb said as softly as he could. He tried to wipe the tears that stained Sansa's face, but it only seemed to spread the water even further down her cheeks. “Let's go with the girls? We'd better be together today. We can drop by the nursery and get Rickon too”.

Sansa swallowed a sob and wiped away the mess Robb had made with a handkerchief pulled from inside her sleeve.

"I-I think they're all in Ayra's room already. I t-thought I was too much older to-“

Robb laid his hands on Sansa's shoulders, interrupting her before she continued to talk about those southern bullshit.

"Everyone is old enough to want to be with their people, San.” Again, he tried to be as gentle as possible, so she would understand that he did not blame her for anything. "Come on, let's see if they're still in Arya's room, it's the closest."

And they were. He heard some small noises and knocked on the door, calling for his sisters, as he had almost never done. It had not taken long for Lya to open the door, expression not much better than his at that moment. But just like Robb, as soon as she laid eyes on Sansa she gave way to them without another word.

But the look Lyarra had thrown over Sansa’s shoulder was all Robb needed to know.

Worry and pain mingled equally in the dark eyes, for the situation, as well as the younger siblings. You see, even if their hearts were filled with grief over what would happen to Bran, there were still three younger siblings to be cared for: Sansa, who tried to appear so grown up ahead of  her time and would not dare approach Lyarra on her own; Arya, explosive even in pain and Rickon, who still had six to complete.

This was the apprehension that now also affected the lad's heart, the weight of which, despite what Septa Mordane probably told Sansa, they, Robb and Lya, were the oldest ones. It was their responsibility, no matter how lost they felt.

All the blankets, furs, and pillows had been thrown in front of the fire, where Rickon was asleep, curled up and practically glued to Shaggydog’s side. Arya stood beside the youngest and stared at the newcomers, eyes wide as two plates. Nymeria was also close to her mistress.

The sight of the wolves seemed to stab Robb's chest.  However, It improved as the redhead felt a wet muzzle hit his hand. Grey Wind.

Robb bent down to stroke the animal, which let out a low yelp, as if in acknowledgment. The boy let himself sigh with relief that his friend was there.

Just like Ghost, lying near the hearth, blood-colored eyes fixed on the new arrivals. The only one who seemed to miss the meeting seemed to be Lady, probably in the kennels, where Sansa had accustomed her to stay.

Maybe that's why he told Sansa that she should pay attention to Wind. It had not taken long for the girl to be seated next to Arya, the big grey wolf in the litter cushioning her back.

Likewise, it had not taken him long to catch Lya with his eyes and together they would join the others.

 

* * *

 

And in the end they all crowded into blankets and wolves in front of the fire, just like little children.

When Robb was almost falling asleep, half crushed by the weight of Rickon on his chest and Sansa curled to his back, he felt cold fingers touch one of his hands. He knew those, and looked over Rickon's mass of curls at Lya, who was separated from him by an Arya, clutching the older sister like a squirrel holding a branch.

Already with the younger ones asleep, she was now staring at him, her eyes full of fear for their injured brother. She would do her best to conceal from the others, but she showed him in that now, seeking comfort.

Robb bit his lip, thinking that the tragedy did not prevent the much-needed conversation he should have with Father, but only delayed it. For how long, the boy could not discern, making the matter of Lya's departure paradoxically heavy and tenuous as the mist rising from the pond in the Godwood.

Robb interlocked their fingers together, their united hands hanging between Arya and Rickon. He also sought comfort in Lyarra.

* * *

TBC

 


	8. Robb III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb seeks to be a good son after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.  
> We have a new name, cos I decided to slip the story in parts. Welcome to the first one, aaaaay \o/.
> 
> As always, I translated it myself (and i lost my english beta T_T), so there might be mistakes. Point them to me if you find one, please.
> 
> Nothing belongs to me. I'm here just for the fun.  
> Enjoy!  
> ________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

Robb did not have to wait too long. One day, actually. Bran's state of health still weighed on everyone: on the frown in Father’s face, in Mother’s absence, in Arya's silence, in Sansa's eyes, on Lya's tight lips. Rickon did not know who to turn to, begging for attention and crying, angry and frightened. Robb had not had a mind to think of anything else, until the circumstance had demanded of him to do so.

 

"Son" Father had called him that morning, strangely unaccompanied by the King, as he had always been since the arrival of the monarch. "In my study."

 

He nodded and followed the serious figure, divided between the relief of being spared from one more training session with Joff and a growing sense of uncertainty, which made him repeatedly run his sweat-wet hands on the jerkin’s end. He had never been much inclined to the debate (to the Maester Luwin’s eternal exasperation) and he knew that simply expressing the obvious would not suffice. If only there were another day or a few more hours, Robb could organize his thoughts better ... the way now was to be the most sincere he could be and hope for Father’s comprehension.

 

The study was the way it had always been, a space with files and maps on which Robb had learned to read when he was five. It was the room the father of his father had occupied when he was the Lord of Winterfell, that Father occupied, and who would be his own when the time came. He relied on this familiarity, pushing the dreadful sensation that such a time would soon come to pass.

 

Father sat down heavily on his desk, staring at him for a moment with dark, grey eyes.

 

"You must learn to control your temper better. Joffrey is the Crowned Prince and Theon's situation will be delicate until the moment he succeeds his father in Pyke. As Lord of Winterfell, you cannot be dismayed by the first thing that troubles you. You must to govern, take care of the lands and the people who are in them.  Nobles and peasants. You understand that.”

 

His voice is heavy like him, made of iron and bronze, a durable alloy to withstand adversity. The family words had always seemed to resound in Father's voice: Winter is coming. A warning most of all, to be prepared, to endure and to lead into survival.

 

Robb nodded, teeth barely scratching the lips. He knew where he wronged and tried not to repeat. But sometimes it seems so difficult.  And, for example, Joff made no effort to facilitate. "I understand, Father."

 

Ned raised one eyebrow. "Do you? It is not a task for a man with wolf’s blood bubbling in his veins. Your Uncle Brandon had it. And now he is six feet under, and I take his place." A pause, in which his stern expression seemed to deepen. " Something happened. Jon Arryn is dead and the King has asked me to be your new Hand. You are old enough, and have accompanied me on counsels and dispute settlements. With me in the South, you will be the acting lord. But I cannot go down unless you know your place. "

 

The message weighed his stomach, but perhaps, perhaps it was a good thing.  It stabilized him, makes him straighten his spine. He knew it, knew it, and asked heavens above to be able to bear the burden. For to govern was just that: a duty and a task, rather than a power; and to protect the main action: the lands, the people who administer them and work in them;  the roads, the family and all included in it.  Various elements to be taked in account and to be weighed over and over until reaching balance. And, after that, to keep this balance, maybe the most painstaking endeavour of all.

 

"I will not disappoint you, Father." His voice was firm, or so he wished, for he had tried to mold it to that of the man before him since he was nine.

 

Father shook his head. "I hope so, son. Listen to your mother, Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik on the advice they have to give you. I leave in a fortnight, with Arya and Sansa in tow. When the time comes, you would arrange for Rickon to join us. Bran...keep me informed, will you? "

 

It was Robb's turn to nod, a lump settling in his throat. Father would speak of Lya now, or else the lad himself would bring it up.

 

"Father..."

 

"One moment, I'm not done yet." Lord Stark only raises his hand from the top of the table, to rest it again, the movement and voice enough to make Robb feel slightly reprimanded. He should have waited more. "There is still one last matter. Sansa will be betrothed to Prince Joffrey, and this engagement pressures me to get a husband for Lyarra, who has been in nubile age for years now. When..."

 

The rest of the sentence was not acknowledged by Robb, the sound seeming to be taken from his surroundings to repeat what Father had just said. A wave of nausea (and maybe a little anger) passed through him.

 

"That's not true!" Robb said before he could think twice. Or better.  "This has nothing to do with Sansa, but with Mother! She does not want Lyarra here with you gone."

 

His father's frown closed, half in surprise, half in reproach. It is not Robb's way to interrupt his parents, nor to question the instructions given to him by them; for he seeks to be a responsible son, a diligent and obedient son. He trusted his elders, but not in this. In this particular case, he had realized, there is a question of justice that seemed to be ignored, and this gave him the impetus to continue.

 

"Father, I must ask forgiveness. Two days ago, I heard you and Mom conversing. It was not my intention, I swear, but the harm was been made. I know you intend to send Lya below the Neck at Mother's request ... and this is-  _wrong._ "

 

Father's expression seems to harden. There is a different scowls as he continues, a layer of ice which Lord Stark very rarely directs to his family.

 

"By what authority do you question me, boy?"

 

Robb shook his head. "With none." Well, it's true, at first sight. "Father, I beg you, you know how Lyarra is. If you send her away from home, she will feel sent into exile, as if she had done something to deserve it."

 

"She will be close to her sisters in King’s Landing, and to me. This is hardly a punishment."

 

"Yes, but in a land that looks at her as if she were the last of creatures ... Otherwise, you would be taking her as Sansa’s handmaid." That one was good. Maybe he could figure out others as he spoke. "I'm not saying not to marry her- But here- they respect you here. She's already safe in the North. You do not need to ask for legitimacy to sweet her offer, you do not need the King. _Here._ "

 

Perhaps that was not the best in oratory, and Robb was not quite sure how he'd thought about legitimacy so fast, but Father seemed at least to hear what he was saying, if only the slightest change in his eyebrows indicated anything. And the lad had managed to control his tongue when it came to King Robert. There was a small mercy there.

 

Ned then seemed to sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you know what your mother says about you two? What is she so sure about, between you and Lyarra? "

 

And there it was, perhaps the only thing Robb had anticipated would come from the conversation, albeit superficially. Mother did not hide the nuisance when she saw them together, having scolding him with the King's fiasco earlier that week. She had called it a game, as if they were betting on everyone's heads instead some other trinket, testing how far they could go by pure fun. As if they were both playing to begin with.

 

"So?" Father asked. And Robb answered. A good son.

 

"She thinks there's a strange pull between me and Lya. Something to do with desire and not with fraternal love. As if, at the first wrong breath, we would disgrace the family and ourselves in the process. But it's not like that.” If there was any kind of tension, it was just form him, casting long glances at something he knew very well he could not have, gorging himself with the affection given.

 

He recognized the appetite warming his insides every time he saw her hand go through the soft curve of her neck or her pink lips; when he had caught her up just in shift and bodice after a hunt, trying to get some of the dirt off her skirts. It Does not matter. He cannot. She knows nothing. And it does not exclude the fact that he _cares_ for her with all his heart. "Lya looks after me and I, her. The way love between relatives demands it to be. Otherwise, I would not talk to you about this marriage thing."

 

It's the truth, though only half of it. It is what Robb had to offer.

 

"Care. And I do not so much effort of you when I mentioned Sansa's betrothal."

 

"Because at least it's something _I know_ she wants. She's been using those bloddy southern hairdos since they announced the King was coming. This Lyarra agreement ... is shifting sand. "

 

"I already talked to your sister. She acquiesced. "

 

"Even the part of the South?" When the silence was what he had found, he insisted, "So, do you know that I am right?"

 

"Seven hells, boy. Try to see the whole scale." Ned exclaims exasperatedly, his hand passing over his marked forehead. "There has always been a miasma in this house. Over the years, this mist instead of dissipating became toxic, and stole the sleep form your mother, took your sister’s peace. A draft of fresh air opens with a wedding away. You ask if I know my daughter. And you? For you seems to forget that as long as your mother lives and is the Lady of the North, Lyarra will still keep her presence like a halter."

 

The tone is hard, but resonates sincere as a bell.  It blew Robb's ears and made them whistle. He thought of Mother, then, the reason of the problems; but how he tried to understand her, and how likely it would hurt Lya’s presence even more if, Gods forbid, the worst happened to Bran. If even with his constant interventions, of Arya’s and even of Bran’s, Mother would not stop with her animosity, how to solve otherwise? And Lyarra ... he could see her in his mind’s eye, looking constantly over her shoulder, guarding each step as if expecting some reproach from the skies at the slightest mistake.

 

And he thought of the alternative. To see his sister satisfied and happy, even away from them. It was a bittersweet sensation, filling him with subtle contentment and a hollow ache that made his chest burn. Still, secreting a part of her fate did not sit well with him.

 

"Peace, my son, in the long run, to your sister and your mother. That's what it's all about. It is not ideal, but it works to bring them something that is lost here. This is care too, and it is duty. Mine. And now yours as well."

 

This does not make it a less heavy burden to bear. "At least tell her where she's going. Or let me do it." The words seemed to tie in his mouth, but he forced them to gulp down anyway.

 

"Once I've made the arrangements, do tell her. Until then, know that this is the way where there is no losing side, son. "

 

He was not so sure about that, but he did not say anything. Robb seeks to be a good son after all.

* * *

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My worst fear here was for Ned and Robb sounding too much Ooc. Please, let me know your thoughts. 
> 
> (Also, if anyone would like to be my English proofread, will have my eternal gratitude. And brazilian chocolate fudge (aka brigadeiro) )


	9. Lyarra IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb's frown was there again, as hard as iron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from the othersiiiiiide.  
> Took me forever to update? YES, but here we are.  
> As always, please point to me any mistakes.

 

 

"I think this is the last one," Lyarra said to the dusty book cover as she walked to lay the heavy volume on the table, where many others were already forming a small pile.

 

"Oh, what would become of me without your assistance, sweet Lyarra?" Said the younger Lannister with a friendly gleam in his mismatched eyes. When not in the bedroom, the dwarf spent much of his time in the library, and contact was inevitable. He might have had a penchant for jokes and taunts, but with no bad intentions truly, and once Lya had learned this, the lord had become a good reading companion. "And no, I believe this is enough material for my journey." And the man still completed with a smile. "I'm very grateful for your help in gathering all of this, really. Considering the circumstances. "

 

Lya paused for a moment, ruminating. She sat down next to Tyrion, her hands running smoothly down one of the leather spines.

 

"Was good. It helped to pass time. "

 

A fortnight passed in the strangest way. Time seemed to crawl, sluggish and endless, as if one were obliged to stay in some festivity, not really wanting to be there. And maybe that was the case, since none of the Starks seemed particularly enthusiastic about entertaining the King and his diners (Father did what he could, it was true, but concern clouded his brow like a shadow).

 

This sense of lack of passage of hours invoked a lethargy of its own, a state of disconnection such that the fall of the sand in the hourglass passed agonizingly, especially when she realized that, even with the uncertainty about Bran's health blackening the environment, the King Still demanded entertainment, and worse still, he had not forgotten to look for the bastard in the corners, forcing Lya to hide as best she could-and _when_ she felt she could.

 

Because she could not leave the younger siblings so alone, or at least Arya and Rickon, since Sansa seemed to have found solace in Jeyne and in the company of Princess Myrcella (which was obviously a much better alternative than Lyarra). Then she had taken part in the feasts, sitting in the background, exchanging glances with her little sister and Robb; watching as Old Nan tried in vain to calm Ricki. And just because it seemed there was nothing more she could do.

 

It irritated her to no end. One of the only things to do was to retreat to a chamber (sometimes hers, sometimes Robb's, sometimes Arya's) and wait until her siblings came in so the they would nest next to the fire, just it had been since the accident.

 

The other one was agreeing to help Lord Tyrion in the library, and Lyarra had taken up the task with such intensity that, when she knew, the day before his departure had arrived.

 

"I believe the little lord is very well liked by the whole family," Lannister said softly.

 

Lya nodded "He ... is." She refrained to say “was”. Never "was". "Was" would bring the boy closer to death than the suspension stage in which he now laid.

 

"Prospects are positive, I heard."

 

Lya frowned.

 

"He can wake up, but if he does, he's unlikely to walk." Her voice felt soft for such a heavy speech.

 

A warm weight covered her lap and the girl looked down, finding Ghost's head there, big red eyes staring up at her. Smiling, Lya scratched the wolf’s ears, thanking for support. Farther away, near the fireplace, Grey Wind stared at them intently.

 

"And then the beasts took care of their beauty," Tyrion commented, taking one of the tomes about dragons. Grey Wind gave a slight growl and Ghost, a pointed look. "Oh, pleas. It was a _jest_. Frankly, those two clearly have the sense of humor of a northerner. "

 

Lya's lips twitched.

 

"Perhaps they might understand better if you were more tactful with your jokes, my lord."

 

The dwarf made an exaggerated expression of shock, his hand flying to his chest dramatically:

 

"Tactless, I? Lyarra Snow, you wound me," he said in an affected way.

 

"It serves you well.”  The brunette patted Ghost's fur a little more, turning to the stack of books lying on the table. "It's such a collection that you want to lend, even more for trip of a few days."

 

"Ah, but here it is: I will accompany your uncle to one of the great buildings of our times. So we have preparation." He waved towards the northern guides and scrolls over the Wall and then to another book pile next to them.  "And distraction. Feed our curiosities and intellects, so not to let our brains lose their edge."

 

"And that's why you read so much?" Lya asked. "To sharpen the mind?"

 

"It is my only weapon, since a sword is of no use to me. Isn't the same for my lady? "

 

Lya shook her head.

 

"I read to have something to do, really. I'm not so sure I would do it so much if I were a boy. "

 

"Oh well. I do not believe I would be even minimally decent with a sword even if it were not a dwarf. But in any case, here we are reading, because that is what we have left. If you ask me, something much more pleasing than fighting with wooden swords for hours without end. "

 

"Really?"

 

"Get filthy in the mud full of dung while sweating, in the cold? No, thank you. I am quite well here, in a warm place, with pleasant companion and hers not so pleasant wolves, with a good cup of spiced wine. "

 

Lannister took a long swing of his drink, more than satisfied. At that moment, Lya wondered if Tyrion did not mind how inadequate it was to be so cloistered and accompanied by a bastard, but she quickly abandoned the line of thought. Obviously it was much more of a problem for her to be accompanied by a nobleman, without proper supervision (if Septon Chayle was excluded, of course). Not that this was going to cause him any trouble for the moment, gathered in the shadows as she had spent the last few days… And Tyrion did not seem to care at all about staying so long inside the castle.

 

The girl looked at the movement of people through the window. It had been a long time since she made a visit to Mikken's workshop, maybe her commission was ready? And Robb? She was sure it was his voice issuing orders to the grooms, as he had been doing since Lady Stark cared for Bran. Was Rickon with him? Staying close to the horses distracted the little boy, she herself would take him for a ride through Wintertown if not ...

 

The feeling of not being able to move freely was worse when she thought about it. She could miss Father, her sisters, and even the dwarf himself, but part of her could hardly wait for the guests to just _leave_ , so Lya could finally get her own home back.

 

"Something tells me you do not share my opinion." Lannister's voice hovered in the air like the dust of the books, redirecting her attention.

 

"I'm not a scholar, I just read. I think I end up enjoying being outdoors more than you." And the girl took a deep breath, suddenly surrounded by a wave of nostalgia. "If there's anyone who deserves this name, it would be Bran. And yet, he also loved riding on horseback, and to climb- " She stopped at the sensation of a twitch in her throat and tears filling her eyes. She squeezed them tightly, trying to get the water back into her body.

 

"It's fine. It's a tragic situation, "Tyrion said, for the first time without a twinge of irony in his voice.

 

She rubbed her dry face hard and shook her head.

 

"Yes. But crying about it will not do anything to change it."

 

He looked at her for a moment, and Lyarra could practically imagine the cogs turning in the dwarf's thoughts. Tyrion seemed to open his mouth, as if to say something, but gave up the idea. At last, his characteristic sigh came to his lips.

 

"Well, I guess we're finally done. The sun is almost set and I'm particularly starving.", He commented, closing the heavy tome that bore illustrations of weapons made with dragon bones. "What about you and I taking a tour to the kitchens? It will be a cultural experience for me. "

 

Lya shook her head.

 

"No. The Farewell feast will not be long. ", She stood up. "I think I'll check Arya and stay in my room for the rest of the night",   _It was  easier to go unnoticed if staying there_ was the untold information. "Good evening. Have a good journey tomorrow, Tyrion. "

 

"I fear that I must have one to be able to properly return these books, or else good Septon Chayle may pray for me to burn in the seven hells."

 

His grin was sour like vinegar, but his strange eyes shone with humor.

 

Lya waved goodbye. The dwarf's expressions still confused her, but she concluded that, for the time being,  she kind of liked those on him.

  

* * *

 

 

So many people were leaving Winterfell at once: Father, Sansa, Arya; soldiers and servants whose faces and presence she had grow accustomed to think as a constant. Even Uncle Benjen - gods, she had barely exchanged two words with him, running away from the sight of these blasted southerners.

 

When the gates opened, the horses began to pivot, and the great northern figures- Father, Uncle -vanished from sight, a cold, sick feeling seemed to grip Lyarra's spine and she shrank into the furs. Sansa and Arya also began to recede in the distance, summer snow melting in auburn and dark brown hair with a strange symmetry. It seemed for a instant the end of something.

  

She scolded herself. _You have no reason to be so upset. It's not like youl'' never see them again. More so, Father can figure out a way to go to my wedding_.

 

The thought only served to worsen her restlessness.

 

"Why is everyone leaving!?" Rickon whimpered, one hand clenched in her skirts, another in Robb's breeches. "What did we do !?"

 

Robb's face, which looked more like a mask of the expression Father usually wore, seemed to dissolve i and he bent down to his little brother's height.

 

"We did not do anything. Father has a duty to do and will be away for a while, just like when he's out, visiting the bannermen.",  And he took a deep breath, the tip of his ears acquiring a lively red tinge of irritation, but his voice continued calm: " And Sansa is going to marry, and Arya will be with her, for company. "

 

The little boy shook his head in dismay.

 

"But Arya will not marry. Neither Lya, and she stayed! You stayed!" The eldest took the youngest in his arms, looking over the child shoulder at Lya. The girl's eyes widened and she gave a negative signal so that Robb did not say anything more. Rickon gripped Robb's doublet. "When will Bran wake up? And Mother ? Where is Mother? "The child whined aggressively.

 

Robb pressed the boy closer to his chest so he would not get off balance. Lya drew closer to the pair, running a hand down Rickon's spine in a back and forth movement.

 

"He's still sick, Ricki. Your mother is taking care of him. It's okay, Rickon. It's going to be okay, "she said in the most conciliatory tone she could muster. Rickon let out a wail and grabbed Robb's neck, burying his red head in the older one neck, practically howling in the form of crying. In the distance, one could hear Shaggydog furious at the kennels.

 

The three of them entered the main Keep that way, the two elders trying to calm the child until tears and screams subsided to complaining whines against Robb's high collar. When he finally stopped, Rickon had fallen asleep, still burying his nails in his brother’s clothing, Lyarra's hand buried in his hair. They walked as carefully as they could to the nursery, holding their breath as they passed their little charge to the Old Nan.

 

When the door closed, Lya leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath and feeling at loss. Across the threshold, Robb seemed to have the same expression as she.

 

"And your lady mother?"  Lya asked. The girl had not dared to get near the room since a few nights ago when she had gone to check on Bran and had been practically set to run with Lady Catelyn's withering gaze. Apparently, it had not settled well with the Lady of Winterfell that one of the first people to find Bran was the bastard, and that Lyarra had left soon after. Damn the fact that Lya had just run to get Arya out of there.

 

Robb ran his hand through his hair, cluttering the supposed order arranged there, the curls falling thickly on his forehead.

 

"The same."  What meant still crestfallen, barely eating, barely sleeping, weaving those offerings to the Seven. And not letting anyone who was not (legitimate) family approach. Or to know what Maester Luwin was telling her.

 

She bit her tongue and continued to the most important:

 

"Bran?"

 

Robb folded his arms and walked away from the door, probably not wanting his voice to cross the wood and hit Rickon.

 

"Apparently out of danger."  And bit his lip before finishing: "We have to wait for him to wake up."

 

Lya just looked at Robb. This information was very close to nothing.

 

"He will. I know," her brother said again, his voice firmer.

 

 _" Robb- "_ The girl's voice sounded louder than she had intended, and she thanked internally that she had also instinctively moved away from where the youngest slept.

 

"He will wake up. We need to believe so. " Robb sighed.  "It also bothers me that there is nothing we can do other than cover up work... Speaking of which, how long do you think we have?"

 

Lya glanced at the doorway, pondering. Beginning to walk down the aisle with Robb at his side, she replied:

 

"What, until Ricki wakes up? Who knows, half an hour, one, two, maybe more? You saw him yesterday, he practically did not sleep. "

 

Of all, the youngest Stark was, understandably, the worst that had dealt with all the changes of days. First Bran, then his mother, the separation from Shaggy weighed him even more in an environment full of strangers. Last week, as if sensing the worsening of the situation, the boy had begun to seek more of the older siblings, but Robb had been drawn to the task of preparing the royal departure, and Lyarra was bound by the need to hide.

And even if they struggled to be with him, it was so difficult. Difficult to be present all the time and, when they could, so difficult to calm him down. Ricki was first of all frightened, and his immediate reaction was almost identical to that of his wolf, wild, chaotic, and in progressive intensity.

 

"Maybe he's too cooped up," Robb commented as they turned down the hallway that led to the courtyard again. When they reached the exit, the boy gave passage for the girl to leave first. "We can try to take him to the ponds, bring the wolves. If anything happens, I'm sure Wind and Ghost can handle Shaggy. "

 

The proposal sounded incredible to her: spending an afternoon somewhere other than her room or the library. Turning to Robb, he saw him fling a crooked grin and lean, lightly tapping one of his shoulders on hers, as if to say _I know of someone else who would enjoy the ride_.

 

Lyarra smiled. "That would be nice." However, it lasted little, as she soon completed smoothly. "But you know it would not do much good, do you ...? He- "

 

"He need his mother. I know.", Robb nodded.  "I'll talk to her."

 

A comfortable silence fell between them as they crossed to the stables, where Mark, one of the older stable handlers had asked to speak to the lordling. Hullen had gone too, Lya thought. Another horse master should be appointed soon. And another master of the kennels as well. And someone to replace Poole. Gods, did Robb have a list?

 

Looking sideways, she could see the lad also looking around with a thoughtful expression. For the last few days it had seemed like a constant in him, and Lya had forced herself to stop noticing the slight crease that seemed to have taken up residence on his forehead. However one might expect that the management of the castle to fall on the eldest son's shoulders, uneasiness fluttered in her chest as she saw him that way.

 

The hot smoke from Mikken's forge, however, seemed to melt his expression a little.

 

"I still cannot believe you ordered a sword for Arya. On _my name_." There was a twinge of humor in his voice, one used when he pretended to offend. It was good to hear.

 

Lya shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

 

"I couldn’t place an order without raising and suspicions, and you know that she would be miserable there. At least now she has something from home and will not argue with Sansa.”, Nor much. Hopefully. “Thanks Gods your handwriting is such a scrawl that Mikken did not even think twice when I handed the paper. If I put a gravy recipe in the middle of it, he would not even notice. "

 

Robb snorted. "What was it, again? Long dagger? "

 

"I think the name is foil. It's a braavosian thing. "

 

"How do you know about this shit ?"

 

"What? About what do you think I keep reading? Cross stitch? Give me some credit, Stark. "

 

They had almost reached their destination, and his smile was wide, small wrinkles forming around his eyes.

 

"Sly bastard."

 

These were dangerous words to be spoken to her, for they were too easy to plead for an offense. However, once again there was really no malice in his voice - and truly Lya never expected that one day it will be. It was a comfort to know someone who loves you would not use the words that hurt the most. _Sly, yes. And only you can call me that, Robbie._

 

She slapped his arm forcelessly.

 

"Resourceful bastard, you mean."

 

"With a heavy hand, for sure."

 

And he took her hand, giving it a small squeeze before releasing it. His smile seemed to subside for a moment, but before she could pay proper attention to the change, Mark let out a loud "My Lord," causing Robb to turn his face toward the servant.

 

Lyarra walked away without a sound, only listening to the comments about how the visitors had left the animals and the stables. Picking a brush to groom one of the mares, she glanced at them from time to time. Robb's frown was there again, as hard as iron.

* * *

 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inicially I was aiming until the libary's fire...then a change my mind.
> 
> The next chapter already has the draft and guess what? We'll have Theon in the next POV, with all his glory. And his dick.
> 
> Until next time, people!


	10. Theon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb was going to be furious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added the laguague tag, but nothing out of ordinary, really. Just Theon being Theon. 
> 
> As always, comments, complaints (civil ones, please. Remember: let's make the fandom a safe place), asks and general human contact much appreciated.

 

 

 

He had thrown himself back with a muffled sound, satisfied. It was a decent mattress, considering the whorehouse. There was a good burn in the back of his thighs by the movement of coupling. Fucking someone on all fours was always a pleasurable activity, especially if the company had a butt like Ros's.

 

“I bet it will take a while to sit comfortably after that.” Theon said, one hand coming to rest behind his head. Beside him, Ros seemed to stretch like a cat in the sun.

 

“Hmmm. You would be impressed by my resistance.” Her tone had gone slightly hoarse, no doubt from the fact that she had begun by giving him pleasure with her mouth. Her disposition, however, seemed intact: coming out of bed as if nothing had happened, crossing the short space of the room to the decrepit table that had been converted into a vanity and sitting on an equally decrepit bench.

 

“I guess the rumors were right then, for you to show up so suddenly after all this time,” Ros continued as she ran her fingers through thick copper hair, which shone even in the dim light. “The royal entourage is gone.”

 

Theon settled on the pillows. Her tone seemed too focused on the Southerners and had stung his pride—not that the lad would divulge it. He should have made her work harder, so she would know what the ironborn men were really capable of. He would do just that if he could lift his dick or if the time to return was not so close. Despite the relatively comfortable sheets, Theon needed a warmer room than that if he wanted to endure Ser Rodrik's training sessions.

 

Cracking his neck, he slipped out of bed, searching for his smallclothes. He was almost certain that he had thrown them at the foot of the mattress as they undressed, but he had apparently been wrong. Theon found them not far from Ros, so that as he dressed them he bent close to her.

 

“Did you miss my dick or my money?” the lad whispered in her ear. When he had finished tying the knots of his clothes, he put her arms over her, trapping them between the male torso and the dressing-table.

 

From the reflection made by the polished metal mirror it was possible to see Ros launch a lazy smile before turning to him.

 

“You're not the only lord I attend, you know,” and then, looking back at her own image,  “well, if it's a consolation, you are the only one from Winterfell.”

 

The ironborn closed his eyes and grabbed the mass of hair from the back of her neck. From this distance the locks seemed darker, almost auburn. Or maybe it was just the shadows of the room. Whatever.

 

“I'm not from Winterfell.” It had come out of his tongue like the snap of a whip. Theon  _was in_ Winterfell. It was different. “I am a Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, where my father was once a king,” he grabbed the locks, curling them like a single rein. Ros squeaked, exposing her freckled white neck. “I should teach you a lesson so you do not forget,” he whispered into her ear, nibbling on the nearby flesh. In fact, he should, but the lad's curiosity had been aroused. “Little Robbie cannot handle you?” he asked humorously. He could imagine Robb, red as a sweet pepper, trying to act decently with a bunch of whores as if they were proper ladies, as his lady mother had most likely taught him to behave. It would be a funny sight to behold.

 

Ros wasted no time and tried to shake his head away from him. Theon did not let go. One of her hands flew to the male’s thigh, her nails digging into his flesh. It was almost enough that his cock gave a spasm of interest.

 

“Little Robbie must have appeared here twice at most since you brought him.” Ros gave another bump, trying to free her hair. Theon clutched his fist even harder, pulling hard. She moaned. Good. “I may not have noticed. It's been busy days with so much new blood around here. Or it just is not a Stark thing.”

 

She spoke as if she were entertaining a horde of lords in a castle instead of opening her legs to the first one to pay. Convinced harlot.

 

“A Stark thing, sure,” Theon said in an ironic voice, nibbling at Ross's ear. “If you exclude the bastard.”

 

She let out a small gasp and tried to pinch his leg harder.

 

“Aye, there was her. But no one saw Lord Stark succumbing to the pleasures of the flesh since he brought her in. And they say she's a perfect lady.”

 

He snorted, arching his back in humor. The prostitute took advantage of the breach and shoved him hard, shaking her head to rid the curls of his hands. The male’s body still blocked her escape, so she turned to him, sitting down on the table. The wood gave an unhappy grunt, but the furniture remained erect.

 

Theon tried to reach her, but Ros stopped him with a knee placed between his legs. Smiling like someone who killed two birds with one stone, she began to massage him over his breeches.

 

 _Ha._   _Talk about multiple talents._

 

“So?” Ros asked, rubbing the soft skin of her thigh against his covered groin. The area was still sensitive, but it was not all bad. “Is she?”

 

Theon grunted. First, Southern lords. Now,  _Snow_.

 

He tried to move forward, for Ros to make a quick move that almost felt like a jab in the middle of the balls. He hissed in distress and jumped back. Giving up once and for all, he set about looking for the rest of his clothes. “Since when are bastards, ladies!? That one is a little thing who thinks she's better than anyone else, even when she smells like a horse a good deal of the time.”

 

Pushing his head through his tunic, he can hear Ros talking.

 

“Anyway, living in the castle must be comfortable.”

 

He turned half of his torso toward her, arching an eyebrow. What the hell did she mean by that!?

 

“Even too much, sometimes.” If the tone of Theon came out a bit like a spit, Ros did not comment. Instead, she narrowed her eyes, humming.

 

“Jealous?”

 

Theon stopped putting on his belt, a wave of anger rising in his body as he realized what that was all about. She was teasing him.

 

“You know, you should use that mouth for more useful things, like sucking my cock.”

 

She gave an insolent mewl, her arms raised, half to straighten her hair, half to stretch again. The strands were piled up behind their heads so that for a minute they seemed as short as a boy’s.

 

“Again? This is going to be extra,” she purred, puffing out her chest. Ros had an incredible pair of tits.

 

“I do not want to pay,” he replied, tossing the open doublet over his shoulders.

 

Ros shrugged his arms, voice loud and clear as a bell, “then I will not suck you.”

 

_We'll see._

 

Theon turned quickly, and in three long strides he'd been close enough to circle Ros's waist with steady hands. When she made a feeble effort to push him away, he brought her closer to his chest.

 

“Well, didn’t you say you were busy? I bet you got that cunt too full of gold from the south to care about the coin I give you.”

 

“It's not just gold, you know. There are silk and linen. Beautiful scarves, small stones. One gave me even sugared fruit from Dorne—”

 

All things that would not worth anything in Pyke, where the price of everything was measured in iron. Theon continued to squeeze her, and Ros continued to blab about the South and his lords. It irritated him unprecedentedly.

 

“Shut up, will you?”

 

The smirk on Ros's smile continued, and he spun her around and tossed her on the mattress, lowering his pants again and entering her once again. However, the mocking sensation still left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue, making him move more vigorously until he was satisfied for a second time. After spilling his seed, he said nothing, just tossed the coins to the prostitute and taking one last look at her hair. It still glowed redder than it really was.

 

Outside, the muddy light of the morning was already visible on the horizon, which made him curse and step on the steed. Cassel rose before the roosters, no chance of not to find him in the yard and avoid a scolding and the promise of heavy training as punishment. Groaning, Theon grabbed the wineskin bound in the saddle and took two large glups. It was too early to be sober.

 

In fact, his first glimpse of the courtyard had been the old man and his white whiskers, voice echoing in reproach for a small eternity until the Theon was dismissed to stable his horse and stuff something in his belly before the training. As if Theon were so weak for alcohol to begin with.

 

Oh well. He'd been reprimanded, it would not get much worse if he changed his clothes and took some of the smell of sex off his body before obeying the orders. In addition, it would give the weak sun some time to warm up the courtyard. The nights and mornings at Winterfell always seemed to nullify all the heat in the world, no matter the suppose heating system in the castle.

 

The time spent to climb up the stairs, to wash himself with a rag soaked in cold water, to redress, and to descend back had been enough for the Great Hall not to be totally empty; Snow spoke quietly to the Rickon brat, seeming to negotiate for the child to eat something. The bastard had tied her dark hair in a braid over her shoulder, her neck a gentle slope while she addressed the child.

 

Theon approached. He might not have used the best vocabulary at the time, but he was really sincere with Robb; Snow was quite comely. Maybe too skinny compared to the strong iron women, but her breasts were perked and her hips broad, visible even beneath the gray surcoat shit she used to wear. Her lips, however, were the best feature, made to suck a man.  Obviously, it would not be the same thing as marrying Sansa, who would be much more attuned to his social position, but would not be at all offended to marry the brunette, or better, to skip the marriage part and have her in his bed.

 

That is, if Snow were not so presumptuous and really thought she had to reproduce the Stark's sense of honor when she was nothing more than a recognized bastard. Seriously, she wasn’t gaining anything by acting like a maiden.

 

As she was doing now, casting Theon a slanted look as he sat down and pulled a handful of salted herrings close.

 

"What's it?", he asked.

 

She twisted her nose, frowning. Ah, of course, we could not forget Lyarra’s winning personality.

 

“You were in Wintertown.”

 

 “Yes, at the whorehouse. And it was amazing.”

 

“Does Robb go to the whorehouse, too?” Rickon asked with his mouth full of stewed fruit. Probably berries or something, as the red juice stained his teeth, as if he was eating from the flesh of a prey. Little animal. But the question was valid, despite the exasperated face Lyarra had made.

 

“Of course—”

 

“Of course not, Rickon!”, Interrupted Snow, her cheeks stained with rose pink. She forced a smile and resumed her tone. "Hey, if you're done, how about you visit Shaggy in the Godswood? I'll just get things ready and I'll find you.”

 

There was no need for the girl to say another word, the boy rushed out the door, mouth full of false blood and all. As he passed the door, Snow turned to Theon, still flushed. “You did not have to say that!” she exclaimed sourly.

 

Theon took a sip of his dark ale, shrugging.

 

“Why? You coddle the little pest too much. If he's old enough to hear that talk of your father about sentences and swigging swords, what's so bad about to know how a man relieves himself?”

 

The bastard frowned even more, if that was possible.

 

“Watch out for the face, Snow. The gargoyle scowl is heavy today, you're going to get crow feet.”

 

“There's plenty for you to look at instead of my crow feet, Theon.” The ironborn smiled at the fact that she did not realize what she had just said. To provoke Lyarra was  _so easy_  at times.

 

“It's an invitation?” He raised his eyebrows subjectively.

 

The pink on her face turned crimson.

 

“It was not- It's not- Ugh!” The brunette groaned in displeasure and shook her head. “Shut up! That's not what I needed to talk to you about, you deviant!”

 

“I noticed, otherwise you would not have sent Rickon away. By the way, he's going to free that demon dog that's his—”

 

“He will not!”

 

“Ho, wait and see, Snow. Anyway, you. Still here. Go.”

 

Lyarra paused, taking a peel of bread from her plate, crushing it between her fingers. There was a small pout forming on her lips, which made her look strangely like Robb. Trust grumpy frowns to denounce Stark blood.

 

“Spit it out, Snow.”

 

“It's Robb.”

 

It was then that he had noticed the plate on Snow left, half eaten breakfast and ale to finish. Some days ago he saw Robb wandering up and down the fortress, not stopping for a second and ignoring everything, including Theon, supposedly his best friend. So proper, perfect little lordling. And Lady Stark still watching Bran's crippled, unmoving body.

 

“Aye.” Theon traced his finger along the edge of the bar. “But until then, nothing new. You know how he's like”.

 

“Yes, but it's not good. He cares too much—”

 

“That's rich, coming from you.” But he could not help but agree with her a little. “But I know what you mean.”

 

“I can get some accounting work. It is home economics, really, and Rickon sometimes ...”

 

“I will not take care of Rickon. Not even if you threated to beat me with a stick.”

 

“You cannot say that! It's just a little boy!”

 

“I can and I am. I'm not a wet nurse. Your half-brother, your job, woman.”

 

“I did not even say anything!”

 

“And I'm already stopping you right there. NO.”

 

“Alright, alright,” She rolled her eyes. "I did not even suggest anything,” she whispered.

 

“Well, I'll make a suggestion, then.” Theon settled more comfortably on the bench, analyzing critically the bottom of his mug. “I'll take Robb to a ride later.”

 

Lyarra nodded, her expression softening.

 

“If it's near sunset, I can go with you.”

 

“Oh, no.”

 

And there she was, scowl in her face. Again.

 

“Why not? I ride better than you two together!”

 

Theon finally left his drink and picked up a nearby apple, biting it with gusto.

 

“First, I'm not going to deign to respond this idiosyncratic remark,” he said between bites. “Second, because I'm going to take him to the whorehouse.”

 

“THEON!”

 

“What? He is tenser than a bowstring! Fifteen minutes with someone sucking him and he comes back brand new.”

 

The girl looked at him for a second, incredulous. And then she let out an exasperated sound, pressing a thumb and forefinger on the bridge of her nose.

 

“Why did I think asking for your help would do something good!?”

 

“Oh, come on. I'm being realistic here. He's seventeen and the most interaction he has with a woman is you, his sister. A man has  _needs_ ,” Theon countered, annoyed at having to explain something so obvious. He could have persuaded Robb to go too many times if the girl did not follow them like a shadow. It was not for nothing that Arya, the underfoot savage, did the same. “Seriously, Snow. Your mother was probably a whore herself, you should not be so prissy about it.”

 

“My mother was not a whore!”

 

“Gods, have you guys already started ?!”

 

The color that burned Snow's cheeks was vanquished and she bit her lip, clearly apprehensive about which part of the dialogue had been heard. A stupid thought, frankly; one only had to see the redhead's posture to know that there was nothing on his face other than the usual exasperation to witness another of the arguments between the iron born and the bastard.

 

“I thought you were going to talk to Maester Luwin,” Lyarra asked almost casually and it was Theon's turn to be exasperated as she avoided looking Robb in the eye. Smooth. At least Robb had chosen not to notice.

 

“I already have. And then I went to the courtyard. Ser Rodrik asked me to find out where Theon had gone.” Robb looked extremely alert to someone early in the morning. Hell, Stark had probably gotten up with the chickens, washed, broken his fast, and done gods-know-how-many lordly duties until he went to meet them. Damn overachiever. "You coming too?" The boy turned to his half-sister.

 

Lyarra nodded, taking the bow and the quiver that stood beside her on the bench.

 

“I will. I'll practice a little and I thought Rickon could learn some standing.”

 

 _And there we go,_  thought Theon.  _She's going to pluck someone's eye some day because she does not know her place._

 

“You should leave it to someone who knows how to shoot right.”

 

He can feel Snow's piercing stare throwing daggers at him.

 

“I know how to! If I was allowed the same amount of training, I would be better than you, Theon.”

 

“Aye, sure,” and before he could complete his roll, Robb intervened.

 

“I think we'd better fetch Rickon, then. I saw him entering the Godswood behind Shaggydog and not exiting. Better to check on him, to see if he went, clothes, wolf and all, into one of the pools.”

 

It seemed the right thing to say, because the brunette got up quickly. “I will. See you guys soon,” and went out the door. After the master himself, Rickon's black monster seemed (slightly, very slightly) less aggressive with the bastard. Off with her.

 

Theon continued to chew his fruit, as if he had all the time in the world. However, if he felt the itch from a gray-eyed glare, now he definitely felt blue orbs burning holes on his cheekbones. Robb stared at him, one  thick eyebrows raised as if to ask, “you needed to tease her?”

 

Theon felt slightly offended.

 

“It's not my fault. She started it.”

 

Robb uttered small growl, rolling his eyes and turning toward the door.

 

“Let's go. You going rogue irritated Ser Rodrik. He's going to make us _bleed_ ,” he grunted softly, still walking. Theon took one last bite of his apple and then followed the younger boy.

 

Now side by side, the he could see the gaunt appearance of the redhead's skin, as well as the thick dark marks beneath his eyes. Perfect lordling, taking care of the household and no doubt playing house with Lyarra and Rickon every night... On second thought, Theon could not remember the last time Robb had left the fortress... Snow might be right to worry afterall.

 

“You're a mess, and I was the one who was in the fooling around,” Theon commented, sincerity permeating his tone for a change. “At least you slept?”

 

Robb pop his neck with a distressing CRACK, hissing with annoyance, his hand flying to where his throat met his shoulder, pressing the spot.

 

“The usual.”

 

“The usual, my arse,” the tirade came so quickly that Robb looked at him in surprise. Oh well. Since they were there, there was no reason to bluff. “Snow came to ask for my help, to see how peachy you are.”

 

Robb cringed as if someone had slapped the back of his neck.

 

“She came?” Theon nodded. “Shit. It's just —a lot of things at once, I guess.”

 

“I'll tell you what you need. Get out. Drink. Do something that is not inside the castle.”

 

As they left the Great Hall, an icy gust of wind had swept through them, causing Theon to cross his arms to protect himself. Damn northern weather. Beside him, Robb's freckled cheeks had taken on a subtle rosy hue, despite the boy seeming not to notice the cold.

 

“Theon, I do not know ...” Robb began.  _Oh, Drowned God, give me patience with prude Starks_.

 

“We go to the tavern, and then we come back.” That simple. Theon explained quietly, purposely omitting that halfway along the way they would casually make a casual visit to Ros or some other friend of hers. Everything very casual, of course.

 

“Oh, well ... Do you think Lya—?”

 

“Be apart for five minutes you two, seven hells!” Theon exclaimed as they flanked the Sept. He could understand Robb and Lya glued by the hip when they were younger, but now it was really ridiculous. Between mother and sister, there seemed to be no hope for Robb. Unless- “Do you really want to take your Ten-and-seven-year-old sister, a maid,” as  _far as we are told_ , he thought wickedly, “into a tavern full of drunkards?”

 

That made the redhead pause in the act. Bull’s eye.

 

“Very well, you have a point. I need speak with my mother again tonight. Then we can go.”

 

Ser Rodrik's cries burst into the air as they set foot on the courtyard. Theon, however, could not help but smile in victory.

 

* * *

 

 

“To speak with my mother” was the euphemism Robb was currently using to describe the act of trying to persuade Lady Catelyn to get away from her fallen son. With the delay, Theon really hoped the discussion had been more than a polite request to fall on ears deafened by grief.

 

Deciding at last to move things forward, he headed for the stables to prepare the horses. In the middle of the way, however, he had encountered Snow, a cloak of rabbit on her shoulders, eyes staring at the windows, just like one of the direwolves.

 

“Are you guarding them like a dog now? I thought the wolves were good for that.”

 

Lyarra replied with a frown. “You just cannot leave it be, can you?” And headed for the library.  _Again. Honestly,_   _I wonder what she always forgets there to have to go back all the time._

 

The girl had only taken a few steps before, as if conjured by magic, the gray-with-brown-spotted wolf pup appeared at her side, it’s hairy head trailing the tips of her fingers. Its yellow eyes stared at Theon for a second before returning to his path, walking away from humans and skirting the tower of the Great Keep. In the distance, his imprisoned brothers howled like hauntings.

 

The lad forced himself not to raise his hand to lower down the hairs on the back of his neck. Those animals were wild beasts that should not be confused with pets. There was a limit to how much they would be taught tricks and how to defecate outdoors, and it would stop just when instinct demanded, their true natures come to the surface, whether it was ripping apart a sheep, a horse ... Or a person.

 

Lord Eddard's children, however, seemed oblivious to this fact—even Sansa who embraced her wolf as if she were no more than a lap dog. Even the bastard, that wasn’t even a real Stark.

 

A slight feeling of uneasiness and dislocation settled in the iron-born stomach, which left him irritable. Stomping away, he turned and continued to the stables by another way. He did not feel like being near Lyarra at the time, and obviously the girl felt the same.

 

The stables were empty those days, and no one had yet been appointed to Master of the Horses. Shrugging, the young man separated two of the relatively new saddles and began to brace them to tie the palfrey and the destrier that Robb and he always wore. He paused his work when the smell of smoke began to coil in the air like snake.

 

“FIRE! FIRE! HELP!” Cries were heard from the west.

 

Theon dropped the saddles where they were, cursing all the swearing he could think. To the west was only the library to burn. And Snow in there, that stupid cunt.

 

Robb was going to be furious.

* * *

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, actually writing on a post-it while doing the chapter first draft : “Just remember, Theon is not a bad guy. He is just an asshole”.


	11. Lyarra V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is not yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please point me any mistakes ;)  
> Hope you enjoy!

 

 

_She needed to get out of there somehow._

 

 _Her brothers also felt the same impulse, but not in the equal intensity, no._   _It was not the same for them, was it?_

 

 _The ground beneath settled into her somewhat frantic movements, the rustling of leaves and the smell of rotting matter rising like smoke from the ground, but they were familiar, they were home._   _Somewhere far away, there was no such soil, neither the scents._   _From this foreign land beyond everything, she could feel the affliction bristling at her tongue;_   _the angry sensation at the tip of her stomach, sending a howl bubbling up her throat, gushing into the cold air like a spurt of blood._   _She_   _felt fear, but stronger than that, she felt grief._

 

 _Two sisters._   _One lost, the other dead._

 

Lyarra jumped out of bed as if the mattress were full of snakes. Something had broken to her right, but she had not turned away, too focused on the sudden panic for no air entered her airways. Trying to have at least a breath, she bended and forced a cough, trying to dislodge whatever was inside her. It hurt, but she did not stop until a green-and-brown acorn of mucus came out through her mouth, then another and another, until she could snort and finally suck in some air.

 

After the moment, she had hung to the side and landed on the shrouded sheets, breathing heavily, chest throbbing, heart pounding. She could still feel the cold sweat trickling down her temples like tears escaping from her body. In the distance, the wolves howled.

 

It had been a dream – another one. She was in the skin of a wolf and suffering for it. And if she was not now shaking because of the current state of her health, she would probably be shivering at the inventions her brain conjured.

 

Resisting the urge to shrink (and by that get too much pressure on her diaphragm), Lya grunted, bringing her hands to her face. She wanted to wipe away what she had seen from her face as if it were eye crusts.

 

However, the gesture only caused a twinge of pain on her palms. There were thick bands of cloth there, encircling from wrists to the tips of her fingers. The ointment still smelled poignantly, and the tingling made it appear that the skin was still burning. She was sure she could feel the bubbles forming and bursting. The hot metal should have burned the flesh to the bone, but it had only eaten the layers of leather. As it was, and if Lyarra took good care of the wound, there would be only scars to tell the story. Same thing for cut on her eyebrow. Only time could tell how Lyarra's throat and lungs would heal.

 

Maester Luwin had said that she had been lucky, with Theon chattering one of the library windows to get her - hurt, burned, intoxicated and unconscious, but alive. The blow taken had opened her eyebrow and needed stitches; her hands were burned when Lya tried to force the open iron knob and were bandaged; and enough time was spend in contact with the smoke and heat to also do some internal damage.

 

If that was luck, Lyarra did not want to think about what the maester understood as misfortune.

 

 _I am spoiled_   _goods now_ , a treacherous voice sounded in her thoughts,  _I wonder if any suitor would give up if I wrote to Father about the accident_.

 

She clenched her fists quickly, increasing pain as punishment. She should not think that way.

 

The sound of hurried footsteps was heard and she stood up, sitting on the bed. Robb had entered like a stampede, followed by Maester Luwin and a pale Beth Cassel. It was only then that Lya had noticed the basin shattered on the floor. Beside that and completing the mess were the phlegm spat that she'd let loose. It made a twinge of unease for the girl to rise, which did not improve as she felt her brother approach.

 

"What are you feeling?", He asked urgently. Robb only wore a white tunic and breeches, no doublet and no sword. Lya pondered how late or how early it was to him to be like this.

 

A gust of wind rushed through the window into the bedroom and through the thin slip Lya wore. It was dark, but there were birds outside. Very early, then.

 

"Cold."

 

Robb nodded and made motions to cover her with the furs on the bed, but was stopped by one of Luwin's arms.

 

The gray maester then approached and asked her to secure the front of her nightgown. Lyarra nodded, crossing her arms over her chest and trying not to move when Luwin stripped her back, not even when she felt the hollow horn he had produced from inside his sleeves to hear her breathing. When inhaled and exhale as she was told, the girl could hear another low hiss.

 

"Very well.", Luwin murmured, covering her again and motioning for her to settle back into the pillows stacked at the headboard. There were so many that Lya sat more than lied down. "Nothing out of the range. The biggest problem is still keeping the room ventilated and with fresh air enough without you getting pneumonia in the process, Lyarra. You gave Beth quite a fright."

 

Lya pulled the fur to the middle of her chest.

 

"Sorry. It was just ... Night terrors, I think." Lya's voice was hoarse and sandlike, its texture scraping the still sensitive mucous membranes of her mouth. The embarrassment she had felt for causing such a commotion through the shit of a nightmare, as if she were a little girl, only added another bitter taste to her tongue.

 

Robb sat down beside him, alert.

 

"Did you remember anything else?"

 

She shook her head.

 

"No, nothing."

 

When Lya had awakened for the first time since the fire, days ago, her head seemed full of raw wool, memories all mixed up. As she recovered, she remembered the struggle with the unknown man, how she had bitten his hand when he tried to gag her; she remembered how he had thrown her against the stone wall, as well as when he had tossed her on the floor, dizzy and half-conscious, to die in the middle of the flames. When she had risen, she had tried to go out only to be burned, at that point the smoke was so intense it blinded her and kept her from breathing. The last memory she had had, before darkness envelopedher, was the sound of glass breaking.

 

Then it was only an indefinite veil, in which a light awakening was interspersed with dreams of milk of the poppy until she could began to speak: little, but enough to tell what had happened.

 

"Let her rest, my lord.", Luwin murmured with some impatience at Robb.

 

Robb had turned to him in such a blunt, direct tone that seemed to not admit concession. He was using his lord's voice with  _maester Luwin_ , and Lya for a second was astonished as the other had not taken a cane to call the lad out for his insolence.

 

"I will, do not worry, maester. But now that my sister fully woke up, I think she needs to be informed of ... Circumstances."

 

When Lyarra heard those ominous words, the astonishment gave way to apprehension. So much that she made her bandaged hands reach for his on the blankets, interlacing their fingers. "What is going on?"

 

Robb stared at her, blue eyes faded in a sickly hue:

 

"My mother went to King's Landing", and what fell from the young man's mouth was a tale as fantastic as those of the Old Nan, full of court intrigues and a little boy being the expiratory goat as a final result.

 

Or maybe, or maybe just the first or many results to come.

 

But before that …

 

"Bran?" ,She saw the shadow in Robb's brow rise a little.

 

"He woke up. Yesterday afternoon, actually."

 

Only the gods could tell who was faster: Lyarra trying to get out of bed or Robb holding her by the waist. Maester Luwin went to the brother aid, also trying to stop her.

 

"Lya, calm down!" The boy exclaimed, averting his face as she tried to jerk him away.

 

"Enough, Lyarra, you must rest."

 

She could feel the cough coming up like vomit, but she pressed her lips together. Lyarra was tired of endless days between napping and potions and patches. And Bran!

 

Robb dropped her as soon as he felt the spasms running down her back, wide-eyed in fear to be provoking the access. Maester Luwin, on the other hand, wasted no time and pushed her onto the pillows, holding Lya by the arms.

 

"Listen to me, girl! You should stay at rest until your lungs can function normally. If you continue with this nonsense, I'll tie you to the bed until you're recovered."

 

Lya's embarrassment with the whole situation only got worse. She stopped resisting, her body progressively ceasing to convulse with the cough crisis insured.

 

The bastard expression seemed to betray the ill-given submission, for Robb continued to stare at her:

 

"You did not give up.", It was not a question.

 

Lya folded her arms and shook her head. In the same tone, Robb continued:

 

"And you're going to try to get out of here, even if I put half a dozen guards at the door."

 

She pondered for a minute. Being faced directly by the maester and her brother, it was no use lying – besides, Lyarra was a horrible liar. She nodded.

 

" Alright.", Her brother narrowed his eyes and then turned to the maester. "Could you please pick up the ledgers in my room? I will keep my sister company until she sleeps."

 

Lyarra stiffened.

 

"I'm not a child!"

 

"If you can be stubborn, So can I!" He countered. His next speech, however, had been softer. "It's not even clear day, Lya. I'll take you to Bran myself, I promise. Later. Now try to go back to sleep."

 

"And if I cannot?" She countered, half in defiance, half in uneasy. She did not want to sleep simply because she had been sent to bed, and in any case the prospect of reviving the strange dreams she hab was not very inviting either.

 

"Ah." Meister Luwin produced a small vial from his robes, depositing it at a nearby table. "This potion will serve you for a dreamless rest, if they still disturb you. A small dose will suffice, Lyarra. Beth, please, bring a glass of water here."

 

Beth Cassell, who had wiped away all the dirt with a wide rag, left the corner to bypass the shattered basin to the pitcher Lya wore to wash. She filled a small goblet with what appeared to be fresh water and brought it back to the Maester, who in turn added a few drops from the vial.

 

"Here." He said to the bedridden girl. "That will make you slumber for a few more hours. Enough for you to get a proper rest."

 

With that, Maester Luwin nodded to the sibilings and walked out the door to meet Robb's request, Beth just behind him.

 

When alone, Robb's eyes stared at her expectantly.

 

"What?" Lya exclaimed. "I'll drink it."

 

"Sure. Do not mind me, I'll just stand here, waiting for you to do it."

 

Snow rolled her eyes.

 

"You're unbearable, you know that? Come on, Robb. I need to see Bran. And the castle, and Ghost ... I need to get out of here."

 

His eyebrows dropped and he moved closer to her on the bed. Their fingers were still entwined.

 

"I know, but you need to recover first." Robb rubbed his forehead with his free hand, exasperated. "Gods, Lya, you could have burned to a crisp if Theon did not know you were in the library..."

 

He looked so dejected at the thought that Lya felt all the rebellion in her body flying out of the window. For the third time, shame cooled her stomach.

 

"I'm sorry." She whispered into the water cup.

 

"It's not your fault." He assured her, placing one hand on Lyarra's shoulder. When the girl lifted her head a little, Robb rested his forehead on hers. "Just ... To see you these days, lying here... it was  _awful_. Please, get well soon, and I promise we'll go to wherever you want: the Wolfswood, Wintertown, the Wall,  _Dorne_  . You choose."

 

Lya gave a little breath. It could be cough, laughter, or a little of both.

 

"Idiot", She whispered, pulling away enough of him to bring the water to her lips. The taste of the herbs was bitter and diluted, which made the liquid seems like dirty water. The descent down the throat may not have been the nicest thing in the world, but Lyarra managed to take it all in small, slow sips. "There. Happy?"

 

Robb smiled and kissed her forehead.

 

"Thank you." He said, catching the empty globet of her hands. In the time it took him to get up and put the object in its proper place, she had already fallen asleep.

 

* * *

 

When she awakened, the first thing to find her was the singing of the birds, stronger and more definitely active. The second was the milky morning light. The third, Robb's snoring.

 

Lya lowered the furs that covered her to her shoulders and sat upright. Robb was thrown into the chair by the fire, collapsed. In front of him, the table Lyarra used to study was packed with books and scrolls.

 

She sniffed impatiently. She should wake him up just so he would learn not to be so hard-headed and stop watching over her like a hawk. Praying that she did not have vertigo for being in bed for so long, Lya rose slowly, throwing the first fur over her shoulders like a shawl and marched toward her brother.

 

The intention, however, was abandoned as soon as she noticed the notes in his demonic handwriting, the feather fallen from his fingers, dirty with ink. Her mule of a brother had finally labored to exhaustion.

 

Slowly, she shifted the blanket from her own shoulders to his lap, closing the cartridge and pulling away the feathers. The girl also took Robb's hands off the table, placing them on his lap over the fur. The fact that he had not even moved told a world about his condition.

 

 _He'll be gray before he's thirty like that._   _And with a stiff neck too_. As smoothly as she could, Lya ran her fingers over his nape, pulling his neck off the odd angle. Robb grunted, but did not wake up.

 

There was a small frown on his forehead, and Lyarra tried to smooth the skin in a near-not-there touch. The wrinkles there softened, but they were not completely gone. At least the boy was resting, so it was the lesser of the evils.

 

Robb seemed to feel the heat emanating from her hand and followed the direction of her fingers, making them touch his face more firmly. The lad let out a breath of air wanting to be a sigh and cuddled more in the seat.

 

Lya paused and looked at him for a moment. Her brother seemed years younger when he slept - his traces resumed their normal, the halfway of youth that was gradually lost in high cheekbones and a strong jaw. A boy, not a man quite yet, but heading towards it. Something between soft and hard.

 

Lya slightly raised the touch, gently tracing the line of reddish hair. A handsome boy turning into a equally comely man.

 

The memory had come into her mind like an ember that resists being extinguished. Once, for what seemed an eternity now, when the Karstarks had visited during the harvest festival, she had thought the same thing when she saw Robb dance with Alys Karstark.

 

His brother had just turned fifteen, and the growth spurt had come full force, making him high as Ice, and making the childish fat to melt from his stomach and cheeks, giving way to a strong body with a solar personality. And heir to the North, which made him an excellent match.

 

She had watched from the corner of the room as Alys looked so taken for him, feeling nauseated at the idea of a marriage coming out of it (perhaps not so different from what she'd felt when she'd been told about her own marriage), trying every way to ignore the resentful thoughts that had boiled inside her.  _He is not yours._

 

She recoiled her hand. It was a stupid thing to think. It was so two years past, it was even more ludicrous now.

 

The fire in the hearth gave a final shudder before dying for once, the light flickering over the polished abacus. Lya took it, along with one of Robb's account books and notes, and carried it all to bed. She could not make a lot of writing with her hands the way they were, but at least she was good at calculation enough to check what he had already done and to advance the work a bit.

* * *

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just a quick thing - In the process of doing the main outline, i kind of write some snippets to help me to set feelings, motivations and all the stuff that will indirectly affect ASOIS (like, for example, this Alys Karstark debacle). If any of you have any interest in see them, please, let me know and I will post them separately. Anyway, see you later, guys! =3


End file.
